


yánasenesse | brief sanctuary

by curuwen



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband is its own warning, Artanis is (almost) always right, Captivity, Fingolfin never wanted to be king in the first place, Fingon isn't stupid he just has Definite Priorities, Finwe's A+ Parenting, Finwieli run the world, Finwioni are all Extra all the time, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, More or less Canon Compliant, Other, Physical Trauma, Politics here are very complicated, Psychological Trauma, Quenya Names, Quenya in text, Recovery, Sauron is His Own Warning, Torture, Turgon's grief issues, early Exile period, excessive worldbuilding detail, look nobody likes Fëanáro right now, there's a worldbuilding supplement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 153,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29336892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curuwen/pseuds/curuwen
Summary: Then Fingon the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war; for the earth trembled in the Northlands with the thunder of the forges of Morgoth underground. Long before, in the bliss of Valinor, before Melkor was unchained, or lies came between them, Fingon had been close in friendship with Maedhros; and though he knew not yet that Maedhros had not forgotten him at the burning of the ships, the thought of their ancient friendship stung his heart. Therefore he dared a deed which is justly renowned among the feats of the princes of the Noldor: alone, and without the counsel of any, he set forth in search of Maedhros; and aided by the very darkness that Morgoth had made he came unseen into the fastness of his foes.- "Of the Return of the Noldor",Quenta Silmarillion
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For detailed background notes on worldbuilding/canon-related decisions/etc, [**please look here.**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29335446)
> 
> WIP, posted by chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eagle was first seen near midday, on the sixth day after Findekáno Nolofinwion had disappeared without word to any.

_Then Fingon the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war; for the earth trembled in the Northlands with the thunder of the forges of Morgoth underground. Long before, in the bliss of Valinor, before Melkor was unchained, or lies came between them, Fingon had been close in friendship with Maedhros; and though he knew not yet that Maedhros had not forgotten him at the burning of the ships, the thought of their ancient friendship stung his heart. Therefore he dared a deed which is justly renowned among the feats of the princes of the Noldor: alone, and without the counsel of any, he set forth in search of Maedhros; and aided by the very darkness that Morgoth had made he came unseen into the fastness of his foes._

\- "Of the Return of the Noldor", _Quenta Silmarillion_

**I**

_i._

The Eagle was first seen near midday, on the sixth day after Findekáno Nolofinwion had disappeared without word to any. 

At first only the keenest of eyes could see it, through the haze and smoke that drifted continually from the three peaks of Sangoronti, poisoning the air even this far away. Those watchers at first paid little heed: they had seen many of Manwë's birds in the distance before now, and little matter. What purpose the kings and queens of the air had in Endórë was impossible to say, but it could have little importance to the Exiles on the shores of Lindëmista.

Perhaps an hour later, though, and those with such eyes had begun to murmur and to ask one another if they saw, for the Eagle seemed to have come closer. Seemed indeed to be leaving those distant mountains and sweeping west, out over the stretch of Laicarda. No one had seen an Eagle do that before, and so it brought some wonder and talk.

By the third hour past midday, though, all of Hyarestolië, the Southern Encampment of the Noldor, was alive with rumour of the Eagle: it had crossed more than half of Laicarda, the green land between here and the Enemy's fortress, and nearly all could see it clearly, so that there arose debate and wonder as to what it was doing, where it was going, and why.

Still, even among those many who watched, few thought Hyarestolië could be its desired end. Many thought it might fly full west, over their camp and towards Aman; a few insisted it might be in pursuit of some band of urqui or other horror sent out from Angamando, but as yet there was no signal from the farthest scouts along the Huinoronti.

So there was no alarm, and the afternoon passed, though now and again nearly everyone in Hyarestolië looked to the sky.

*********

Itarillë had stopped watching the Eagle's passage half an hour or more past. The air outside the carefully-netted gathering tents was still more full of ash and smoke than she cared to endure, and stung in her eyes, even if it had cleared enough that most did not need to wear gauze across their mouths and noses. 

It was nearly sunset and some very few of the others had begun to insist its flight would bring it right over them, if it continued as it was, but she doubted it.

It was hardly the first Eagle to be seen far off, about whatever business the Eagles had, here in Endórë. Watching or hunting or even just . . . living. It was not as if urqui could pose much threat to one of Manwë's great birds. Why should they care about them, or any other creeping beasts either? Their nests were on naked mountaintops, and they could see everything. 

Even in this choked air.

She could think of no reason one of them would come here - certainly no good one. It was not as if any servant of Manwë's could bring good news to them here. For that matter, it seemed difficult to think even of a reason of dire misfortune or threat, because if the Valar had wished to destroy them, why wait until now? 

As well, one Eagle, though fearsome, could hardly pose much threat to the whole armed encampment, and even in a dark corner of imagining Itarillë found it hard to believe that Manwë would put his beloved creatures to such risk.

Watching it, she felt, could only be a waste of time, and one that left her eyes and throat sore.

So Itarillë went back to one of the smaller public tents that they had put up against the smoke, careful to slip in through the gauze around the awning at the entrance as quickly as possible to let as little of the choking air in as she could, and then past the canvas door and the second layer of gauze. 

She sat down to try and pass at least some time at some task that would neither feel like a waste of that time, nor annoy her with its repetition and endlessness.

That seemed more difficult than it should be. The last few days had dragged to a lull, for so long as Findekáno remained missing and there remained no sign of him, everyone seemed loath to make plans or to bring any plan to action, other than to look for some trace of him.

So Findekáno remained missing, and the encampment remained bound in a small sort of dance. And Itarillë was not a huntress; there were no steps in that part of the dance for her.

It left her with little to do beyond wait for one of her older kin to ask something of her, except for those things that always needed to be done by any free hand that could do them, like mending and cleaning and replacing and taking stock, and that had begun to pall before even yesterday.

The air was cleaner in here, at least. The tents - smaller than the great ones that held the mattanesse or the workshops or other such shared spaces that lay within the circle of the ditches and other fortifications - had first been set up over the span of cold months for people to gather in, to save fuel. 

They had taken them down as the weather warmed, for it was better to be outside if one could, but since Sangoronti began to spit ash and smoke at the sky, Haru had ordered many of them erected again, so that people could hide a little from the bad air. 

The canvas kept a great deal of it out and the layers of gauze and canvas and space kept it from coming in the doors. And then there were Artanis' tricks.

Morinén, one of Artanis' aranduri, sat on a cushion on the floor, briskly sweeping the glass rod back and forth across the strips of rabbit fur. When she was finished, she returned them to their places on the paddle of the fan that depended from a cross-brace from the central tent-pole. Then she pulled the string that moved it back and forth through the air.

It did not clean the air as well as a lengthy rainfall might, but rain was sparse, and the odd fan kept the air inside tents cleaner than the outside air if you used it correctly, and often enough. 

Itarillë did not entirely grasp how: something about the little shock of lightning that built up from the contact between fur and glass (as it did between hair and glass, and some other things) and then lay waiting on the fur. Somehow it caught up the smoke and ash; after a while the furs had to be taken out and beaten clean, sending puffs of dust into the air, and could then be used again.

Artanis had worked it out over a few days, calmly making trial of the idea, while everyone else complained. Findekáno had explained it to Itarillë, after Artanis had quietly demonstrated that it worked. Her uncle had seemed delighted by the whole thing. 

Itarillë had not followed the whole explanation, though she had let her uncle explain without interruption as it seemed to please him. Artanis understood these things better than she, far better - the way light and lightning, heat and fire, air and water move and tangle around each other, and around the material things that could be made by hands and mind.

Truthfully, Itarillë thought Artanis understood these things better than any of the rest of them knew, maybe even better than Atar or Haru did. Artanis simply also felt no need to display her understanding for its own sake. When Artanis startled the rest of the family, as she had with this, Itarillë often thought she saw the faint signs of satisfaction around her cousin's mouth - but only if she looked very closely.

Itarillë also noted that rarely if ever did Findaráto look surprised, whatever his sister did. Resigned, on occasion, but not surprised. And never, ever startled.

Even so, Itarillë greatly hoped it would rain. And that the cursed mountains would stop spitting their fumes at the sky for a while - but that was probably too much to hope. Rain, though: rain might come, and wash the air clean for at least a little while. Make it so that the haze had to begin again from nothing, and did not have days and days behind it to build up.

Artanis herself sat to one side in the tent at a small table with one of her other aranduri, taking count of what stores were on hand and what they needed, what cried for repair and what could wait. She had not looked up when Itarillë came into the tent, although Itarillë was certain her cousin knew she was there, so presumably there was nothing yet that needed Itarillë to do it.

Giving up and accepting that all her tasks were dull but that she still did not wish to be left with _nothing_ to do but listen to her own thoughts, Itarillë took up mending the fine gauze netting that kept from letting in both biting flies and the smoke again every time one so much as drew back the flap of a tent. The motion was soothing and the work fine enough that it kept her from thinking if she did not wish to. And just now, she did not wish to.

Her uncle was still gone, and no one knew where, or why.

They came upon the sixth day, now, since the encampment had woken to find Findekáno's tent empty, his sword, bow, pack and cloak all gone, the smallest slip of salvaged paper reading _I will return_ on his cot and nothing else. 

The guards had heard nothing, though this was not surprising, given that it was Findekáno. No trace could be found, not really - Irissë said she thought her brother had gone east to begin with, but she would not be willing to wager on it. The ground was dry and hard over most of the land between the mountains, and Findekáno knew how to hide, and he would be hiding from _her_ and from other hunters that he knew very, very well. 

And anyway, where would he be going? No one could tell her that, and she could not guess, Irissë said. Even if he covered his trail, she said, if she knew his likely aim she could seek further and hope to find a mistake, but without it choosing the right direction would be blind luck. With so many, that became a waste of time.

So it became that question: _where could he be going?_

That was the question no one could answer, Itarillë knew, and so the question that gnawed at every heart, including her own. 

Where would he be going? 

What could he be trying to do?

No one knew. The archers and scouts he commanded could tell nothing, not even his satari, not even those closest among his mahteminómir. 

As for their own kin, Angaráto and Aikanáro both agreed that Findekáno had been thoughtful and quiet of late, as if brooding on some deep problem, but that he would not say what that problem was, nor even admit that he struggled with one - and if asked, his aspect would be sure to change for several hours after, as if he were reminding himself not to let anyone see his thoughts.

Or even that he had thoughts that troubled him.

Besides, everyone had such dark and brooding thoughts. There was cause enough for them. 

Atar knew nothing. He and Haru had been at the furthest south-west end of the lake that the Hyarestolië used since the day before, seeing to a problem with the wells, and it had taken them to late enough that they had chosen not to walk the hour back to the main encampment, but to sleep there - and that was when Findekáno left.

Artanis had only lifted one hand when asked. And beyond that - well, who would know? Itarillë certainly did not. He had taken little enough provision, but Findekáno was both wood-canny and hardy and not averse to discomfort. 

So where had her uncle gone, and what in the name of . . . well, anything, was he doing?

As Itarillë's hands moved on the cloth and thread, her thoughts turned themselves over, though all were familiar enough. 

The division of the hosts bothered him. That Itarillë knew. That, everyone knew. Her uncle, her father and Findaráto kept the debates they held over what to do - or what to convince Haru they should do - as quiet as they could, but that was often not so quiet after all, and Itarillë herself had heard it:

_Every moment of this enmity strengthens our true Enemy, and he is not sleeping._

She had also heard her father's constant counter, and her grandfather's later agreement: that the enmity of one did not erase the conflict with the other. That the betrayal in Araman and the abandonment remained, and could not be forgiven. 

And then finally, she had heard Findaráto's silence.

Itarillë often wondered what Findaráto thought. Often she suspected that the generous openness he showed in most things might well hide a great deal behind it; that he chose what to show with a very careful skill and craft, and that simply because he was patient and kind, it did not mean he was not cunning. 

So his silence made her wonder what he truly thought, and made her wonder if he agreed with her uncle, and simply did not yet see the right way to convince the others. 

And though she knew every reason for Atar's argument and though those reasons spoke to her _feelings_ as strongly as to his . . .Itarillë could not help wondering if Findekáno were right. Or . . . _more_ right. 

If his point were not more pressing. That the wrong done - doubtless at the behest of one now dead - should be forgiven and let pass, for the threat that loomed across the shadowed mountains and the flat green land. 

Could it be that? Something to do with that? Could that be why her uncle left? She was unsure. 

Itarillë wondered if she should speak with Artanis, ask her if anyone had thought to seek in the direction of the Fëanárion host. If anyone had thought that maybe her uncle had tried to go there himself, to make peace, or to bring back some token or sign that peace might be made. He could not have gone across the lake, for a boat would have been missed, but he might have gone around, and sought out the other encampment. It was something Findekáno might decide to do. 

Few people knew Findekáno's amilessë, but Itarillë did, because her mother had insisted that her father give over his to her when he had courted her, and Atar had decided that if he had to admit to _Selmonwë_ , his brother and sister could carry _Horëavó_ and _Norolindwen_ as well, at least with his wife.

Then Amillë had told Itarillë once upon a time, when she had complained only mostly in jest that _Sairiel_ seemed very heavy to wear sometimes.

And _Impulsive Son_ suited Findekáno as well as _Stubborn One_ sometimes suited Atar, or _Whirling-wind_ suited their sister. It would not be inconceivable that such an impulse might drive Findekáno to try to make peace himself, and then present the whole thing to his father, finished and complete, and dare him to undo it.

In fact that would be very much like her uncle, Itarillë thought. 

Maybe she should say so to Artanis. Artanis would be able to judge if it seemed a wise enough thought to share. And if it were, well - Atar and Haru might ignore Itarillë, or dismiss the idea out of hand from her, but even Haru did not often _ignore_ Artanis or seek to give any sign that her words weren't being heard with care.

It was strange, Itarillë thought, and thought often. She had never once seen her elder cousin lose patience, or even speak more than a little sternly. Yet there was near no one, not in the whole host, who did not walk carefully around Arafinwë's only daughter. Itarillë wondered what there was there that her father and others saw, that she did not.

Not that she did not listen to Artanis, or consult her, but that was simply because her cousin was often the wisest person Itarillë knew, not because Itarillë was afraid or thought she had to be careful. Far from it.

Maybe it was just that when it came down to it, Artanis was the oldest daughter of the House of Finwë here, even if only by a few months, and that mattered. 

And that without her, the tents would still all be filled with smoke.

The sun had just set and the light changed with it when the commotion outside dragged Itarillë's attention away from the intricate setting of a handloom and outside of the tent, to the red light and the rest of the camp. Shouting and babbling voices rose, and then calls for Haru and oaths and words of astonishment.

And then _Findekáno?_ and cries of _look out! make way! it is landing!_ and other noise. 

Itarillë stared at the door to the tent, and then to Artanis at the table; Artanis looked to her with the faintest frown, and then stood, which was enough for Itarillë.

The air had grown a faint chill as the day drew to an end, and the sinking Sun threw long stark shadows back eastward along the wide road, the one first marked out by nothing more than the feet of the host as they had returned from the Enemy's gates. Itarillë stared as the Eagle landed at the widest expanse of that road and indeed the only space within the camp it _could_ have landed. 

It landed like a storm, each sweep of wings throwing up dust off the ground and buffeting the air hard enough that those who had gone too close yet were knocked some of them off their feet.

Itarillë could only stare. 

It was one thing to know that the Eagles of Manwë were vast beyond any easy scale, that they had to be in order to be seen as far away as they could be seen, to know what that meant they must be like were they to come close.

It was another to see one set its feet upon the ground, each one wide enough to catch you up and carry you off as fast as a falcon on any mouse; to see wings that spanned so vast a space, and that moved such torrents of wind to fly that it was like the most violent of tempests when they struck you; to see the talons, the great head, the curving beak and the bright, bright eye so keen that even if you were, as she was, by no means closest to that eye, you still thought that it saw you and saw through you, as it saw through everything.

So much did the Eagle fill all space of thought and sight that it took Itarillë more time than it might have otherwise to take in the smaller figure that it bore on its back. For which it now bent its shoulder to the earth, so that the figure could descend more easily. 

And bent _deeply_ , too, that the figure could slide off without a fall.

Figure - no, figures. There were two shapes, the one bearing the other in arms - at least for a moment, until that figure too stooped and laid its burden on the earth only to stand and bow deeply to the Eagle, a hand pressed over its heart.

The Eagle tilted its head, and perhaps it said something. Perhaps not. Itarillë certainly could not hear, though she thought she saw movement of its beak.

Then the Eagle took some steps away and the standing figure bent, as if to throw its cloak over the one it had laid on the ground.

Several of those who had scrambled to their feet were knocked back off of them again by the wind as the Eagle leapt aloft, beating wings like a gale until it was high enough that it swooped and then gained height once more. Itarillë threw up her hands to shield her face from the dust. 

When the wind had calmed again and she brought them down, it was to see her uncle stooping to lift what seemed like a body from the earth, wrapped in a blanket.

And it was her uncle, was Findekáno: she could see that now. Without the Eagle demanding all her eyes and mind she recognized the shape of him, and the movement, the line of his cloak and all else. And Kindler knew she had seen too many people carry too many bodies, and knew that shape, too -

\- though as she watched, she knew also that she had been wrong. That it was not the body of one dead, but the form of one still alive, but wholly senseless.

And then she knew.

She could not have said whence the knowing came, not exactly - it seemed to come from everywhere, from everything she had spent days thinking, from things she half knew and half remembered, and then it was just . . . there, clear in her mind, clean and absolute and certain, and she heard herself speak as if she were only listening from the outside. 

Heard herself say, " _A aina Elentári ancalima_ \- he went to _Angamando_."

And there was only one reason that Findekáno would go there. 

Artanis was by her shoulder when she said it; Itarillë felt her there. She also heard Artanis catch her breath and then, under that breath, to mutter invective so harsh that Itarillë turned to stare at her in shock. 

She was not used to hearing even Artanis call on the Void or the Darkness of it. 

Her cousin's face was set, although Itarillë could not understand the grim shadow that was there. "We are going to need my brother," Artanis said, her words clipped and short. "At least if we do not wish to risk that the second Kinslaying happen _here_. And - _Oiakúma_! he must be half- _dead_ at least, we will need -"

"I know," Itarillë said, because she did, her mind already racing over the litany of healing, of tending hurts and wounds and what it needed.

She could not fathom what Artanis meant by the other thing she had said, and her thoughts flinched away from the darkness of the jest - if it was a jest, and if it wasn't, she flinched only all the more. There were things Artanis would say, in the private spaces that were only her and Irissë and Itarillë herself, that Itarillë often found she did not want to understand, all the more because sometimes they seemed true. 

"I will go first," Itarillë said, suspecting Artanis would suggest it anyway, "I can asses . . . " she shook her head and waved it away, for it did not need to be said. "I will meet you at my uncle's tent."

After all, she could not think where else he would go: the Asiëmar she deemed too far away, and given who he bore, likely too great a risk when it came to all others who might be there.

Given who he bore -

She hesitated and asked, "Can he _be_ alive? After so long?"

Artanis shrugged. "I doubt our Enemy would let him die," she said, and Itarillë's thoughts flinched away from the darkness in those words, too, as Artanis turned towards the lake at a run, to the fishing boats where last Findaráto had been known to be, with her arandurë who had come with her out of the tent following at her heels.

Itarillë paused for a heartbeat to watch those who had gone to meet the Eagle and her uncle fall back from him, feeling the same strangeness and tangled sparking charge that she could feel, as he paid them no mind at all and carried the still form Nelyafinwë Fëanárion towards his tent.

Then she gathered herself up to run, to reach that tent before him, calling names of those she would need to help her as she did.

_ii._

He could hear his father, and his brother. 

In a way, distantly. 

On the other side of the roaring silence that had settled in his mind the moment desperation had left it space enough to push its way in and spread its wings through his thoughts near as widely as the Eagle's through the air, Findekáno could, in truth, hear them. 

He could hear their questions, their words, their bewilderment, their fear, all of it. 

He simply could not make any meaning out of the noises, and made no effort to. Did not _care_ to. 

He knew he had thrown the camp into uproar; he knew he had thrown everything into uproar. But that knowledge was nothing next to the weight in his arms and the smell of blood and smoke and pain and Findekáno did not care what they said or why they said it, not right now. He did not care. Thought nothing of it.

The silence was too loud. It screamed at him.

There was not enough room in him to give any thought to the sounds they made, to turn noises into words and then find words in answer. Not in and around that silence, and not when pressed against that silence was the emptiness of exhaustion, and then behind _that_ the dark and looming shape of _so many thoughts he did not wish to think_ and knowledge he did not wish to know, things he did not want to understand, and knew that he would, that he would have to. 

That he had no choice.

He knew that the moment the deeds in front of him ran out - now that they were here, now that they were safe, now that everything suspended in the moment of impossible wrenching grace brought on vast wings and close on the heels of absolute crushing despair would fall back on them, on _him_ \- 

Findekáno knew that very same dark shape of thought he felt looming on him would crash on him like a breaking wave and he would have to find a way to know, and think, and understand all of it, so that it did not swamp and drown him. He would have no choice, if he did not wish to fail. 

And he did not wish to even think about what he meant, what there was that he could fail. He could not. 

It was too much. And in front of him still were steps he needed to take, bearing a weight that was _not enough_ , and then there were . . . people he would need to find, aid he would need to seek and above all of that was the darkness looming and it was _too much_. 

Beside the enormity of that, Findekáno had nothing left to answer his father, or his brother, or their questions, however much right they had to ask - and in that silence and in that darkness he was not sure they did. Before, he had thought of ways to answer them, but that was before: the silence and the dark edges had not seemed quite so much, before.

Now he did not care. 

It had been hard to think of darkness, above. The sky had been cold and wide and empty and full of the Sun and thus so, so bright, too bright. There had been no darkness there, only too _much_ light, above the smoke. Only light and cold and wind and vastness and the need not to fall and not to let the bleeding living body he held as close to himself as he dared fall, either. 

Though Thorondor was generous with warnings, though neither did he fly as high as was his wont nor drop as far and as fast - still.

Still.

There was also no harness on the back of the Lord of Eagles, and the air grew colder the higher you climbed; between that and the brightness there had been no room left in his mind or his heart - so that even fear, and elation, and amazement too had been driven out.

Until now. Until landing.

But now he was tired, and the wind in the heights had been so very, very chill, and the blanket-wrapped shape he carried made no more sign, no sound, not even of pain anymore, and truth be told Findekáno simply did not care what noises anyone else might make.

He certainly had none of his own to give them. None that they would wish to hear. And he had no wish to hear their questions, their demands, and though he was certain he would know if Maitimo had died already, _still -_ still the fear ate at him and balanced, volatile and shimmering, on the edge of anger or of collapse.

So Findekáno heard his father, and his brother. He simply ignored them. And did not think to question how the slender, golden-haired shape in blue that was his brother's daughter met him and held aside the canvas to let him duck only a little to step in to the shelter of the tent and the warmth he did not expect, and to let him lay his cousin down on the empty bed.

There was not enough in him to allow for questions, or even for gratitude - not until he had laid Maitimo down there, and knelt by the bed itself to see that his cousin was still breathing. Still alive. 

Then there was still not enough space in him for questions, but for a different cause. 

_iii._

Her mother had bled before she died, but not like _this_ \- and at first that was all Itarillë could think.

She did reach the tent before her uncle did, with enough time to push cushions and folded blankets off the bed, move them to a corner out of the way; to put coal and starting-oil in the brazier and light it; and to light the lamps that were already there. Those she'd called to on her way here would bring more, with the water and cloths and other things, and maybe her aunt would bring more as well - for surely Artanis had also sent someone to find Irissë. Surely Artanis had.

And Naicë would come as well. Itarillë herself had sent a child running for Naicë, the first one she had seen. And now, now she was very, very glad she had done so.

For now, as she held open the door of the tent for her uncle - and as he glanced at her and barely seemed to understand what he beheld, or to care so long as she aided his purpose instead of impeding it - it seemed that all _she_ could see and understand was blood, and all she could think was that her mother had _died_ and yet had not bled so much.

Itarillë had seen many die, on the ice. Tried to save many, as her mother had done. And _had_ saved many, as her mother had done as well - until it had been beneath her mother's feet that the treacherous crust of snow gave way, throwing her down to break her on the sharper ice below.

But Itarillë had seen many die, just as her mother died. And she had thought then that there was little as horrible as how the blood seemed to seep into the snow and stain everything around it, even when it was not enough to kill, and yet.

Yet never had it seemed so _much_ as this. This was worse. 

Her thoughts tried to encompass that. First to encompass the blood soaked into the blanket and showing on skin, to encompass how much there seemed to be, as Findekáno laid his burden down on his bed. Bent to lay that burden down and then rested on one knee, as if a new one had landed on him, and Itarillë thought she had begun -

But as he did that, then, as he let go, Itarillë found that the simple horror at the blood gave way, and she had to encompass everything _else_ she could now see.

And there was so much _else_. Each part of it became hard to understand, because each part before was already in the way.

She remembered Nelyafinwë. She remembered him as she had seen him, the last time she had seen him by fire and torchlight under the stars, only one watch before they woke to find the stolen ships gone. She remembered him tall and beautiful, hair that seemed like living copper braided back, and - unlike at least three of his brothers - quiet among the arguments, debates and recriminations, standing behind his father, mouth tight and face grave.

Now he was in truth not less tall, and yet seemed shrunken and not only because his skin pulled tight across his bones, showing the angles of rib and hip, shoulder and cheek, so much flesh beneath wasted away. His hair might still be red but it was tangled and matted, as filthy and streaked with ash and smoke and blood as his skin, and his skin -

Nelyafinwë was naked, though as he laid him down and the blanket fell open, Findekáno moved to pull it back over him at least a little, though much of the rest tangled and would not follow. Still Itarillë could see the wreckage, and the further streaks of blood.

There were wounds that were open, still, as well as those that scabbed over, and then places where a wound had - no, she could not say _healed_ , could only call them _closed_ , old wounds that no longer gaped or bled but no, she could not say _healed_.

She knew enough now, had worked at healing long enough now that she could _feel_ them, even only so close, and they were not healed.

Some seemed haphazard, as if rocks or ice or something else that was sharp had gouged at a body that fell down on them; others seemed regular, intentional, measured, made by knives or other sharp tools; and yet others seemed like they came from claws or teeth.

Most of the blood came from the hand that had been lost, that she could see, and plainly: even with strips of leather tied above in tourniquet and what seemed to be torn strips of cloth bound beneath them to staunch it, still . . .

Itarillë shook her head as if that would clear it or shake all of these things into place so that she could think. So that she could begin to make the tally that Naicë would need, or at least that she would need herself to help.

It was hard to tell under the dirt and the blood but Itarillë judged that, could she see Nelyafinwë's skin, it would be white as death; he did not move nor make a sound as Findekáno set him down and there was something wrong, something very, very wrong with his right shoulder and his side, far beyond the mere absence of his hand, something in the bones misaligned and askew. 

He breathed, but shallow, and short, and his eyes were closed. Itarillë knew that his skin would be cool to the touch. In short he lived - but only just.

It seemed that she thought all of this over long moments, but it could not have been more than a heartbeat as Findekáno let go and paused for a moment on one knee -

\- and then her father and her grandfather were also stepping into the tent, and Atar had said his brother's name, and there was . . . .much . . . to be read in his voice. 

Too much, and all the wrong things. Anger, and dismay, and affront, and confusion, and - 

And if at least some of the anger and dismay came from the fear of six days not knowing if his brother lived or died, well -

It still came out dressed in anger, there in his voice, and the beginning of a demand to know what Findekáno had done, what he was doing, what he thought - 

Itarillë knew it was the wrong beginning, that nothing good could follow. 

And now, as if he suddenly woke from a stupor, Findekáno rose to his feet in one single movement, already turning; his spine had gone straight and Itarillë thought she saw his eyes flash and _now_ she heard again Artanis' voice in her head, the dark jest that might not have been any such thing.

And her mind was full of her mother, and the stain of all the blood, and many other things as well - not least that her uncle still wore his dagger at his belt.

She wished Artanis was already here or even her aunt. But they were not: there was only her.

Itarillë did not step _between_ her father and his brother, not in truth, for it would have been a step too long for her legs - and yet still she stepped forward and _as if_ between them, stepped and moved herself to draw eyes and thoughts to her as she spoke. 

She stepped forward to interrupt, and she stepped forward with all the authority she could muster, and she spoke to her _grandfather_ , raising her voice to say, "Haru: this is become a yánesse now and I have a duty. It is _not_ meet to debate or take counsel here."

At her voice and her words, her grandfather's gaze snapped up, as if taken aback to hear her and more to hear what she said. But it was true; the tent was now a place of healing, could be no less than the Asiëmar properly was, for Nelyafinwë should _not_ be moved again now and could only be tended here; and Itarillë had her duties, that being true. 

This was a sanctuary and whatever fight her father, her grandfather and her uncle might have, they could not have it here. And as Itarillë stood among her kinswomen - and once her mother - who presided with Naicë over such places - 

Itarillë _saw_ her father stiffen in the silence after she spoke, saw the movement to speak start in him. So she shifted her gaze to meet his, to _match_ his and - in truth - to dare him to invoke her mother, to speak of her mother's death, to protest her action now in such terms.

It was hard to say why she was angry, of a sudden, what the anger was for or what it meant, but it was sudden and hot in her and braced behind what she did, pushing her forward as a welcome support.

She knew why her father was moved to speak, she knew what he would say, and she knew that he would not be wrong: that the one who she had just spoken of, taken so formally into her care as nautamo, had left them to die on the Ice just as surely as his father had. 

That her mother _had_ died, on that Ice.

She knew that.

She knew why her grandfather's gaze now on her weighed so heavily and it was not comfortable nor easy to endure: Findaráto had needed to speak at _length_ when adding his voice to Findekáno's, both of them arguing to keep her grandfather from pursuing Nelyafinwë's brothers when they had withdrawn. 

Haru held all of them complicit with their father, and there was some justice in that, and though for the moment he regarded her in silence, she knew he was not pleased that she had so spoken, no more than Atar, and only better in restraining his own temper than Atar generally could be. 

She knew that, and still -

And still.

Itarillë knew all of that, all those reasons, and none of them were enough. Beside the broken, bloodied ruin of a living body that lay in this tent, beside the horror she could feel in her uncle, beside all of this, it was _not enough_. 

She kept her eyes locked with her father's and dared him to speak. To force her to say what she did not wish to say, in answer. To invoke her mother, so that she would have to say what her mother would, were she still alive and stood here. 

Atar's jaw went tight and so did his hands, but he said nothing. So after a moment, Itarillë returned her gaze to her grandfather instead, striving to keep it steady and calm.

"I have a nautamo," she said, quieter but still firmly, invoking the claim more fully with the word, "and that comes with a duty, and I cannot -"

She stopped, as from outside she heard her aunt's voice calling, " _Atar_! Háno! Is it true?" and then Irissë too was at the door, and then within, and then stopped, her hands flying to her mouth as she said, "Oh Kindler!" and then she seemed to be flying across the space, behind her father and her brothers.

Then she was at the other side of the bed, all without waiting for answer or even for reaction - for anything.

Her loose hair flew behind her, too, and the light cloth of her skirts, for she seemed to have come from the bathhouse and to have stopped only long enough to pull on a loose gown and a sleeveless robe that she could belt at the waist. It might not even have been her own, though it was still white, for it was simpler far than her garments generally were and the belt was simply a grey cord, nothing more.

Itarillë felt it as a relief, to have Irissë there and to have her enter thus, whether she were unconscious of or simply indifferent to the tension in the air and what it might mean: either way, it changed the balance of the moment and in the direction that Itarillë desperately wished. 

Irissë had stood counter to her father and her brother for far less than this, and was far more accustomed to such conflict than Itarillë had ever been. Her presence felt as if Itarillë now had a wall to put her back to. 

Itarillë watched her grandfather change, though she did not entirely understand all of what she saw; something about him lifted and softened as he glanced to his daughter, becoming in some way resigned instead of poised - though at first Atar's face darkened, if only for a moment.

Irissë knelt beside the bed, reaching out to Nelyafinwë's maimed arm, her manner now one that Itarillë recognized well enough: there was dismay, but the dismay of one also taking stock of what she would need to do to tend to her nautamo, hands not quite touching yet seeming to trace the shape of the wounds she faced, ignoring all else that might be happening around her.

She was better at that than Itarillë was, more able to dismiss the presence of anyone, anything and everything that was not the task before her. 

Irissë's right hand stopped over the bloodied cloth around Nelyafinwë's bleeding wrist, and she looked up at Findekáno.

"This is new?" she said, the question exclaimed, and Findekáno looked down at her, seeming caught off-balance at the question.

Then he swayed so much on his feet that Itarillë feared he would fall, and found herself darting across the space to catch his arm and put herself under it. She made him sit on the small space at the corner of the bed, for the nearest chair was too far away; he was _heavy_ to hold up before he caught his own weight again and she did not think he would be able to stay on his feet alone.

"I . . . could not get the band to break," he said, his voice uneven, face now pale. "I could not free him any other way, I could only - " Then he fell silent again, eyes fixed on the wound. 

Itarillë glanced at her father and her grandfather, who had still neither moved nor spoken further. But before she could speak yet another voice called from outside.

Findárato's voice, calling for Haru and Atar both, all concern and urgency. 

Findaráto did not come in, and Itarillë silently blessed him for that. He only called from where he stood out in the night. But at the sound of his voice, it was as if a splinter snapped, and Haru let loose a breath of air. He shook his head, as if shaking something off and then, taking Atar by his arm, her grandfather pulled her father from the tent.

He held aside the canvas so that Artanis could enter, as he left.

The relief at seeing Irissë was doubled at seeing their cousin, and Itarillë found herself drawing a deep breath for the first time at least since her father and grandfather had come to the tent, and maybe since the Eagle landed at all and she recognized what that meant. 

There was a deep comfort, she thought, in knowing that someone older and wiser than you was nearby, so long as they were someone you trusted.

Behind Artanis came several others, some of them her aranduri but not all, carrying water and other needful things; Artanis gestured that they should put them down and then waved them out again, telling them what else to bring, before she let the canvas fall and stepped far enough in to fully look and take in what lay before them.

"Oh Kindler," she said, and unlike Irissë's exclamation it came as a sigh. Artanis pressed her lips together, and then began, "Itarillë, help me with this - _Irissë_!"

The sudden sharpness and the look on her face made Itarillë turn to look and see her uncle listing badly even as he sat, until his sister turned and caught him by the arm as she rose.

"Put your brother on the floor before he falls there," Artanis said to Irissë, sighing again, as she passed one of the vessels of water to Itarillë, along with the kettle she would need to put some of it on the brazier to heat. "I would guess he has rested and eaten little enough since he left."

At that Findekáno roused a little, though he had moved to sit on the floor where Irissë guided him, and he raised his head to look to Artanis and begin, "I did not - "

"Yes, I know," Artanis cut him short, as she bent to take the skin of miruvórë from the top of one of the baskets, and a cup as well. "And here you are, ready to swoon and collapse and give us another nautamo, and I am not surprised at it." She poured the cup full and crossed to give it to him, and though Itarillë thought he wished to argue he did not do so, only took the cup and drank it as she bid. 

Itarillë would not have argued either. They did not have a great deal of the miruvórë, and Naicë diluted it carefully, but if ever it would be needed, it would be now. It might save her uncle from truly collapsing in front of them here and needing their care. 

Irissë had begun to gather Nelyafinwë's hair away from his face and neck, pulling away what strands were stuck to his skin by blood, dried and half-dried, and . . .whatever else. "Here," she said, catching Itarillë's hand after Itarillë set the kettle over the coals, "help me with this, it is already filthy."

She meant the blanket Findekáno had brought him wrapped in, and as Irissë lifted Nelyafinwë's still form a little Itarillë carefully pulled the soiled and bloody cloth from underneath him, using it to wipe away at least some of the worst of what was there as she did so. It would at least help them to see more clearly what still bled, and what was infected and . . . everything else.

Irissë's clothing, whether borrowed or her own, was already smeared in places with blood and Itarillë doubted her own would be much better. She tried not to allow the laughter at the faces the launderers would make rise into her throat, least she begin to laugh aloud and forget how to stop. 

It was that moment when their helpers returned, this time with Naicë among them, carrying her leather case on its strap over her shoulder. Most of those with her were Irissë's aranduri, three of them, or two of Itarillë's own, and one or two of Naicë's own students from the Asiëmar. Itarillë could see the sudden horror in her own aranduri's eyes as they saw what they came to, but she had no time to think of comforting them. 

Nor any space in her for it. 

When the nestandë stepped fully into the tent, her eyes widened and she said, " _Kindler_ ," and it seemed this time it was as if the word were a stone she could throw.

There came a sound like strangled laughter from her uncle that made Itarillë turn again to look at him as he remained on the ground, now drinking water that Artanis had given him as well. She was not the only one, and in response to their looks he gestured to Irissë and Artanis and then to Naicë and shook his head.

Itarillë did not entirely understand what was so amusing, but she was saved from saying it, for Naicë had now looked at Findekáno for a moment herself and then made a noise in her throat that sounded caught between resignation and exasperation, and it seemed Findekáno forgot his amusement on hearing it. 

He stared back as if expecting censure and prepared to answer it and in that moment Itarillë found herself thinking of a hawk or eagle mantling at a threat. 

"Yes," Artanis said, as if agreeing with Naicë but also as if she were resigned to something, this time taking a familiar box with its bottles and the other basket with its carefully sewn pouches from one of those who had followed Naicë back to the tent, and putting them on the low table another of them had brought and placed near the light. Her voice seemed to shatter the brief tension of that moment. "But since I can promise you he will not leave nor rest yet without summoning enough aid to bodily remove him, pay him no mind. He will fall over or not as it comes, and I at least can drag him out of the way and throw a blanket over him if need be."

It seemed to Itarillë that her uncle wished to say something to that, to either the words or the tone of Artanis' voice, which carried notes that clearly he understood - though other than perhaps Naicë the rest of them did not - but that either he thought better of it, or he found himself too drained to find wit in return.

It might have been the second, but it might also have been that in a place of healing, its sanctuary declared, only Naicë now could claim greater authority than Artanis, and Naicë would clearly upbraid him further, and in more detail, and maybe try to send him out. So it might be better to accept Artanis' resignation and whatever else was behind it. 

Even exhausted, sometimes Findekáno understood discretion as being wiser than impulse.

Sometimes.

Naicë looked especially small and fragile beside Artanis, as she always did, her hair so black it seemed not even to shine much in the light, kept bound and braided up without ornament, eyes nearly as dark in her small and pointed face. She had spent so long in Estë's gardens that sometimes it seemed to Itarillë that something of dreams had gotten into her - not the soft edges, but the flashes of quick-silver thought, the moments in dreaming when it seemed that you fell or that everything changed without knowing and it left you reeling.

And Naicë was old, old enough that when she said - as she did now, but often did at other times as well, and to all of Itarillë's kin - "You are _all_ like your grandfather," none could truly argue. She had known Finwë before Oromë came to the shores of Cuiviénen and had followed him to Aman to begin with. It was something few enough could claim. 

In her mouth, the words could be anything from praise to curse to - it often seemed to Itarillë - a prayer for patience, and just now it seemed most like the last. A prayer for patience and a resigned acceptance, shaded with exasperation and weariness.

But now - as the nestandë shed her cloak, gave it to Artanis to set aside, and moved to the side of the bed - her face changed, and another sound came from her throat, this one of mingled horror and pity and a different kind of resignation.

Someone else, Itarillë thought, might have remarked on _who_ lay on the bed, or how they came to be there; there was much to be remarked on. But Naicë said nothing on it and it seemed to Itarillë that to Naicë, all she might have said had been contained in those words - _you are_ all _like your grandfather_ \- and with that said, there was nothing more she might wonder at or be surprised by.

Besides, Itarillë supposed Naicë might well feel it did not concern her: who her nautamo was and what that meant to anything else was a matter for policy and royalty and concerning themselves with that, Itarillë had long suspected, was what Naicë considered to be the purpose of the House of Finwë, and the reason to put up with all of them. Her purpose was to heal hurt and sickness where it arose and came in front of her, and all else could be someone else's concern.

It could be very grounding, being around Naicë.

Naicë touched Irissë's shoulder, said, "Move yourself, child. I will need my needles and thread, and my blades, but first I need to see and you are in my way," and - reluctantly it seemed to Itarillë - Irissë did move, getting to her feet and stepping away, as the nestandë sat on the edge of the bed. 

When Findekáno had set him down, Nelyafinwë's limbs had lain in disarray, with no conscious will to guide where they fell. Now he seemed half-curled as if in misery, for when Irissë had lifted him so that Itarillë could take away the blanket, he had again not moved after she set him down again. 

Irissë had covered him with one of the heavy, undyed linen blankets they used for this: warmer than being left bare but easier to clean than wool or fur, as well as easier to fold aside and move as needed. 

Now, Naicë folded it carefully back and reached out to straighten first one leg and then the other. As she did so, and reached to shift Nelyafinwë wholly onto his back, Findekáno seemed to flinch. Indeed, he seemed ready to reach out and stop her, gaze fixed on her hand and where it moved. But Naicë briefly held up her other hand, though she did not look at him.

"Peace," she said, quiet now, with none of the complex tones in her voice that were present at nearly all other times, so that one could never tell if she was laughing or annoyed behind whatever dry comment she made, or both. There was none of that in her voice now. Just quiet, and adamant, command. "I am not going to harm him."

Itarillë's uncle subsided, though she thought he was reluctant. His eyes followed every move Naicë made and again, Itarillë was reminded very much of a wary hawk. 

Naicë laid Nelyafinwë's left arm by his side. With both hands she straightened his hips and then his neck - then her hand fell to the shoulder above his maimed right arm.

Itarillë could see that something was wrong, that the girdle of the shoulder and its joint did not sit right - but more than that, that the bones of his chest and ribs below were also askew. Naicë touched here, and there, and made another noise in her throat before she lifted Nelyafinwë's maimed arm and laid it gently across his own side. 

Itarillë had to look away, briefly - now that the wrapped cloth had been removed, even with the bands, the clotting and the drying, still the wound oozed blood, and more than a little. And even after all this time, such a sight was distressing. 

It looked again like Findekáno would speak but before he could Naicë asked, "He hung from this?"

She asked it in the manner of a question asked only to confirm what one already knew, and Findekáno stopped, mouth closing, and only nodded. "A long while," Naicë added, touching Nelyafinwë's ribs and shoulder a second time. "The weight has pulled the shoulder apart, muscle and joint and ligament under the skin - that will take some time to mend."

Then she touched just above the leather strips that served as tourniquet and said, "Your sword, I assume," glancing at Findekáno and Itarillë thought her uncle looked abashed, and maybe ill.

"I had nothing else," he said, eyes now fixed on the wound, and Naicë let go her breath.

"So it must be, sometimes," she murmured. Then -

"To close the wound and let it mend as best it can I will need to shorten what bone is there," she said, more briskly. "And there are other wounds here that will sicken and poison him if they are not cared for, now that he is away from the Power that would not let him die. Do not look stricken," she said, and that was to Findekáno again. "I do not believe he will die. Not unless that is his wish."

Despite Naicë's command, Itarillë thought her uncle looked more sick now than he had before. "And if it is?" he asked, quietly.

Naicë gave him a look that Itarillë did not understand. "It is very difficult to get any of you to choose a path counter to what you already intend," she said. "But what he wanted back in whatever pit you found him in and what he will wish when he wakes and knows what is real now may be two very different things."

Then she pulled the linen blanket back over in order to cover Nelyafinwë with it. "Come," she said. "There is much to do."

_iv._

He was not meant to be here, Findekáno knew.

It was not the way of those skilled in healing to allow an audience while they worked, not their way to allow any near but those who _did_ their work, whether in great ways or in small, skilled or learning. And Naicë was the last he would expect to bend that unspoken law, at least willingly. Some of her students and helpers, perhaps, but not she. Findekáno would have thought she would try to make him leave.

She would not have succeeded; he did not _care_ , gave no thought or heed to what he broke or bent, spoken or unspoken - and if Findekáno could hear his mother, now so far away, chide him for the recklessness of such a thought he did not care about that, either. He would not leave.

He had promised Maitimo that he would not leave him. That was the end of it; there was nothing else.

But he had expected Naicë to try. Had expected to have to refuse, to persuade, to fight.

Instead she had only given him a look, as if he were a recalcitrant child but one she had decided it would cause more disruption to chastise than to ignore, and said nothing. And if part of him was riled by the look Findekáno told it to be still. He did not have the strength to pick fights he did not need.

He was weary beyond what he had ever felt before, even on the Ice. 

The miruvórë had revived him, a little: enough that looking at the wreckage written over the skin and bone of Maitimo's still form where cloth did not cover no longer made the world swim in front of his eyes, though it still made him sick - the wound from his own hand not least.

But even with the miruvórë, it was . . . hard, to think beyond that, beyond what was written there in the lurid strokes of broken skin, the stain of deep purple through to fading green from bruises and the white marks of scars that did not even seem as if they were _healed_ , only as if the skin had closed up for now and could open themselves at any moment. 

All that was inscribed in the tracks of infection through veins and the shapes of bone under too-tight skin, with so much that should have laid between being instead wasted away.

Though not all. Not enough to kill. And Naicë's words ate at Findekáno's thoughts, like acid burning its track in steel: _away from the Power that would not let him die_. They mingled with the memory of Maitimo's voice pleading and begging for death and bloomed in Findekáno's mind and his lungs and choked him. 

It was hard to think beyond what was written in the bruising so deep a purple it was nearly black, and then red, and then blue, stains that seemed almost to spread anew under the skin of Maitimo's right shoulder and the skewed shape of his ribs beneath, that moved only a little with each shallow breath.

Maitimo's eyes were closed, and sunken, not even the fluttering movement of dreams or thoughts; and in memory Findekáno could only hear, over and over, _kill me, kill me, please, please - melindo, onóro,_ héru _, Káno, I beg you._

And over and over, every name, every pleading word, every endearment - _kill me, Findekányo, if ever, ever you loved me have mercy I beg you_ kill me _do not leave me here, melindyo, just kill me now,_ please _-_

Findekáno felt a hand on his shoulder. He startled and looked up and, moving as if by rote, took something from Nerwen's hand as she gave it to him. It took him a moment to recognize they were smaller shears, the kind usually used for cutting cloth or thin leather.

Nerwen's eyes were knowing, and not unkind, but this was one of those times when being _seen_ , as she seemed always able to see, and known as she always seemed to know - it struck almost like a blow, and a childish part of him wished she would not do that.

Fruitless wish: as well wish the sea to dry up.

But he looked down at the shears in his hand without understanding until she spoke.

"Better to help than to sit stricken, Káno," she said, quietly, "and in order to be tended, wounds must first be clean, and we must know where all of them are." And then, more gently, as he realized what she meant, "It will grow back."

And he might have laughed, at the reassurance that came before he even felt the pang of senseless regret for such a small thing, in the face of everything - a rueful laugh, that she saw it coming, to answer it even before he knew what he might regret.

He might have laughed.

Except he thought if he began to laugh it might be he would forget how to stop. So instead he took the tool she gave him and turned back to Maitimo.

Began to cut away the filthy tangled mess that Maitimo's hair had become, all that time alone against the cliff.

He cut close, above matting and tangles and filth, though not to the skin - he did not trust his hands enough to cut that close. They did not shake - mostly.

Only sometimes, looking at the pale of his own skin against the copper that he could still see among the mess. When memory would not keep obediently back and instead called up a mirror of that same sight with such a different cause - or, not the same. But a reflection.

Twisted, distorted reflection, except that it was the world in front of him that was askew, amiss, horrifying. And still overlaid with that echo, Maitimo pleading - not even for help, but for death.

And all of it tinged with remembering the agony of thinking that maybe that would be all he could give. All he must give. 

A few times, when that became too much, Findekáno's hands shook a little. Then he had to stop and to breathe carefully, before he began again. 

It was hard to think beyond the small space that held himself and Maitimo's still and senseless form, now covered to his shoulders with the blanket except where one of the women folded it back to tend to a wound. It was as if the world further away than arm's reach was on the other side of a chasm, not in space but in thought. Understanding.

The others moved in and out of it, crossing that divide and then back away again. They were only real when they stepped into the small orbit of that sphere, and became a ghost of the mind again when they stepped out. 

Distantly, Findekáno knew that his sister measured out lengths of gauze cloth, a hand-span or less, spreading something on one face with the edge of her little finger and then setting them aside, but close to hand; and he knew that his brother's daughter was taking the water that boiled on the glowing coals and pouring it over flowers and leaves Findekáno did not recognize that were piled in the wide basin, until the air was filled with steam that smelled sweet at first, and then stung ever so slightly at the back of the throat. Then she would carefully dip thick pieces of cloth the size of her palms in it, and set them in a dish. 

She had done this twice already; when she had enough by whatever measure she intended, she brought the wet cloths to Naicë and they would use them to clean the skin around a wound Naicë wished to use her needle and thread to close. 

Findekáno thought something about the herbs they used meant it cleaned better than water and soap alone. Maybe.

He knew that Nerwen sat behind him, busy at something Naicë had tasked to her but that he could not recall in detail - making something out of pieces of leather and fur and curved metal that he did not understand but also could not make himself curious about. 

All of this happened around him and did not seem real. 

But now Naicë sat where she had sat to begin, the bloodied wreckage of Maitimo's arm lying now across her lap on another length of cloth. 

The open wound was no longer bleeding. Naicë had soaked a long thin strip of linen in another kind of herb-water Itarillë had prepared and then she wrapped that cloth around Maitimo's arm a little above the wound - wrapped it far more tightly than Findekáno had dared or could stand to try, because the way Maitimo had cried out when he tried.

Then Naicë had taken the ends of the cloth tied together and twisted them over a small metal rod and turned that again to bind tighter still. The bleeding had stopped completely after that. 

Then Naicë had cut the leather Findekáno had used and put it aside. Now she sat, both hands resting on Maitimo's arm, eyes half-closed and brow furrowed in thought.

Findekáno could not bear looking at that wound too long, the white of bone bright among the red wreckage of flesh and skin smeared with blood, and he turned back to his own meagre task.

 _Please_ , begged the echo in his head, _please, Káno, Kányo, have mercy and kill me, please, don't leave me, kill me, please -_

He took care, and his eyes only burned a little but did not blur. 

When Findekáno had done with cutting away the matted mess he could say he had seen worse, before, among those whom mishap struck, or whose inclination meant they did not care to think of such things and so kept their hair short, or whose grief demanded outward show.

He had also seen much better, but he had seen worse. Findekáno gathered the cut tangles onto a square of cloth Itarillë gave him and tied the corners closed, tying them tight, and then putting it aside along with the shears. 

When he was finished he saw that Naicë had leaned forward and one hand now rested on Maitimo's brow. He also saw that her frown had deepened. 

Before he could ask, she said, "Artanis, I need you - and Irissë, come here, it may need all three of you," and now she looked at Findekáno and he returned her gaze, surprised.

"To hold him?" Nerwen's voice said, over Findekáno's shoulder. He looked up at her to stare in horror, a moment, at the calm but thoughtful look on her face. She had put whatever she was doing aside, and her head was tilted a little, as if she were considering how best to do it.

"He may not have enough strength for it to matter," Naicë said, with the same calm as Nerwen, "but I would rather not take the risk that he move, and there is no small chance that the pain may rouse him - so yes, to hold him still."

Understanding had already twisted up like a knot of sickness in Findekáno's gut, and he passed a hand over his face. Words of protest welled in him, pushing against his throat, but he swallowed them and pushed them down.

Said, "Show me how," instead, because he could not think through it on his own.

And Naicë did, guiding his hand and arm to rest across Maitimo's waist and hold at his hip, and the other across the front of his left shoulder to rest his hand against the side of Maitimo's neck. It seemed Irissë already knew what was wanted, for she knelt at the side of the bed beside Maitimo's legs, and rested one forearm across his hips and had the opposite ankle in her other hand, just resting, and waited.

Under his hands Findekáno felt the sharp edge of too-prominent bone and it ate at him.

Nerwen took Maitimo's right arm and shoulder in her hands, looked with that same considering cast to her face, looked at Naicë and said, "Realign and return the shoulder first?"

Naicë nodded and Nerwen moved Maitimo's arm in her hands and there was a noise and a . . . _shifting_ under Maitimo's skin. The noise was something Findekáno nearly felt through the body under his hands instead of heard and it turned his stomach. 

Then Nerwen slid her hand underneath Maitimo's upper back and something else moved as well, with sound and motion as sickening. Then at last, Nerwen drew her other hand across the top of Maitimo's shoulder, as if guiding something into place.

Under Findekáno's hand Maitimo stirred for the first time since he had fallen still on the Eagle's back - though the movement was slight, so slight - and from his throat there came a soft noise. 

Naicë looked grave - though now Maitimo's shoulder lay even with the other. Scarlet was spreading over the places not already dark with bruise, both at his shoulder and also at his side. 

"I feared that," Naicë said, sighing, as Nerwen let go and knelt closer on the edge of the bed, where she could now bring more strength to bear, her hands now on Maitimo's arm, holding his upper arm against his side and forearm in her hand.

"Findekáno," Naicë said, and waited until he looked at her, reluctant.

He knew what she would say, and that it would be true, and he hated it anyway, hated to have to hear her say it. But he still met her gaze, and she still said it.

"Yes," she told him. "You will have to hold him tightly enough that it will be almost certain to hurt him, and I know you do not wish to. But it will do him far, far more harm if he is not still while I do this."

Findekáno's jaw was tight enough he thought one of his teeth might crack, but he did not argue.

She said, "I will need to open the skin and flesh, but that I think he will not feel - however, then I must cut the bone shorter, so that I can close everything back, in order that it may heal aright. And that I think he will feel, and it will hurt, and he will try to do what all living things do when something hurts and they do not understand and cannot think. There is nothing I can do for that now: I cannot avert it."

Her eyes held Findekáno's. "But if he is not kept _still_ until I finish the cutting of bone, it _will_ injure him and it will be much worse. Do you understand me?"

Findekáno hated every word, but he did understand and so nodded nonetheless; he could not say it aloud.

Then he had to look away, as she took one of the small blades Irissë brought to her from the tray - now set on a flat stool beside the bed - and set it against Maitimo's skin. Instead he looked at Maitimo's face, for if it was still miserable to look at the wounds and ruin, at least this way he could see the faintest movement of Maitimo's eyes under their lids, and remember that Maitimo yet lived and might continue to. 

Naicë was right: Maitimo did not even stir, not for the incisions she made. Findekáno could not look at what the nestandë did, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the moment she put the blade back aside, and took up the fine loop of steel wire instead.

Then she said, "Be ready," and though he braced himself, Findekáno could not have said which was the worst: the _sound_ of the wire sawing through the bone, the cry that came from Maitimo's now-open mouth, the way Maitimo would have twisted away, recoiling, if Findekáno and Nerwen had let him - or, at the last, how weak Maitimo was, how little he could do against any of the hands that held him at all.

How it took three of them to hold him still only because each had only two hands, and there were so many places that needed to be held; how were it just a matter of of strength, any one of them could have done it easily enough alone.

Findekáno's sight blurred, eyes filling and overflowing: he could look away but not stop his ears, and it seemed that what he heard gouged at him as the moments stretched on - until Maitimo went lax against his hands again, and the greater part of the noise stopped.

It was another moment, though, before Naicë said, "You can let go," and then Findekáno did as if his hands were burned.

He almost wished they had been. That there were some price for what he had just done. It might have been easier.

One glance towards her told Findekáno he should still look away - it was not as bad as seeing wire saw through bone, maybe, to see needle and fine thread working through skin as if it were cloth, but it was yet more than he could stand just now.

He looked to Maitimo's face again, instead, and at how the skin around his eyes seemed darkened even where nothing bruised, and how under closed eyelids his eyes moved now, faint and restless. How the scratches and cuts were livid, some infected; how the corners of his mouth were raw and cracked, and his lips were split and the skin peeling. 

The obscenity of that. 

Findekáno touched Maitimo's face, the line of now-clipped hair, and tried to blink his own eyes clear.

This time, the hand on his arm that caught Findekáno's attention was Itarillë, not Nerwen; when he stared at her, uncomprehending, mind for a moment slow and sluggish, she bent to catch his hands and bring them up to take the small, deep bowl of water. She put the cloths on the side of the bed, and said, "Even what need be tended or bandaged after must first be cleaned," echoing Nerwen before - and after a moment he managed to understand that by this, she like Nerwen was giving him something more to do.

"When all the cloths or the water is dirtied," she continued, seeing the understanding in his face, "tell me; I will bring more."

Findekáno nodded, feeling stiff and strange, but put the water down beside him. It smelled something like sweet, lighter than the other from before; it was warm, but not hot, and the cloth was soft and thick. Findekáno wet the cloth and carefully turned Maitimo's face towards him, beginning to clean away the filth from the thin cuts, scratches and bruises there.

It counted as something. And if cleaning away the filth let him see where skin was cracked and scraped and torn - at least it would be clean. 

Behind him, he heard someone - many of them - coming and going from the door of the tent, bringing . . . things. He did not really pay them much mind, but he knew the inside of his tent was changing shape around him in the absent way that he knew the Sun had gone down: knew, and did not care.

All the care in him was given to what he did, and driven by that care he cleaned the stains of far too long away from Maitimo's brow and cheeks and mouth and tried not to be stricken still at what it showed him. 

Four times, Itarillë brought him new cloths and new water, as both became overwhelmed with filth and with blood - old blood that came from other places, stained and dried on skin, and, too, new blood as filth and scabs were moved away, and small cuts and scrapes and what could only be the marks of teeth were sometimes opened.

They did not bleed freely, or much, but it was enough to colour the water and stain the cloth, as he held pressure against some of them until they stopped what little they had let loose.

After a while, Findekáno paused and had Itarillë bring him enough water to carefully wash what he could from Maitimo's hair, before he went on. It would not be perfect, but it would be better, and there were deep scratches and bruises hidden there as well, that Findekáno found. 

Nothing as much as the wound on the side of Maitimo's throat that had needed more than a few of the stitches before. But still something. 

Findekáno felt the moment the tent started to grow warmer, looking up to see a second and third brazier beginning to glow in other corners, and in that same moment Irissë folded the blanket down to Maitimo's waist.

Clean bandages wrapped the stump of Maitimo's right wrist, and as Findekáno leaned over with a clean cloth to wipe away the blood and dirt from his right shoulder and upper arm, Nerwen knelt at that side. 

Now Findekáno saw what she had been making - how the padded brace would fit against Maitimo's shoulder and hold it immobile. She set it down carefully on that side of the bed, and waited until Findekáno was done and Maitimo's skin was clean - or as much as it could be, as things were.

"Here," she said, and between them they lifted Maitimo enough towards sitting that Findekáno could hold him against the front of his shoulder, while she saw to the wounds near the top of his back, where the straps for the brace must sit.

There were new wounds there, from what looked to be the gashes of rock against skin - and then underneath there were older marks, some of them straight as if from a lash, and others curved and jagged as if from claws, and then more of the others in pattern as if from teeth.

"Breathe," he heard Nerwen say, and realized she was speaking to him. "If you fall faint now, you will drop him." 

Findekáno gritted his teeth, but knew she was right, and that she deserved none of the snarling reply he felt well up in his throat. So he swallowed it, and stayed silent.

Instead he held Maitimo as carefully as he could, with Maitimo's head cradled against his own shoulder, while Nerwen washed the wounds on Maitimo's back clean so that she could tend to them. 

Somewhere in the tangle of his mind was the thought that he did not wish to be careful. That he wished, at his core, to gather Maitimo as close and as tight to himself as he could; but that would only do harm, and anyway was childish and selfish and he did not have time for it. 

Somewhere else, in the tangle of his mind, some part of Findekáno simply screamed. He ignored that, as well. 

He had not known yet that Nerwen had learned to sew skin as well as cloth, and looked away, again, as she turned her attention to those places that needed such closure, or to which among the older wounds that she feared would fester and so needed to be opened, cleaned and closed again with sutures.

The technique was a marvel for healing and Findekáno knew that. Had seen that over the crossing of the Ice and heard of it before. But it still disturbed him deeply to watch, and worse given whose skin it was, and how still and senseless Maitimo still was. He could feel Maitimo's breath against the skin of his neck, but only just. 

Over some of those sewn places, and with some that she did not sew, Nerwen took the gauze that Irissë had treated and pressed it against the wound; then she took denser cloth, and something in a little bottle with a brush, and she painted whatever was in that bottle onto Maitimo's skin all around the gauze, then pressed the cloth to it.

When she saw Findekáno watching her, she said, "It is a kind of glue - one that does no harm to skin, and dissolves with oil if need be. It is not as durable as a wrapped bandage, but it will do for now to keep these wounds covered for the next few hours; if need be, we can do something else when he wakes."

Then Nerwen set the brace against Maitimo's right shoulder and passed the band to Findekáno in order to wrap it around him. The brace cradled shoulder and elbow, bending the wounded arm across the front of Maitimo's body, and then wrapping all around and back to fasten at the elbow.

"It will keep him from jarring it badly if he moves in his sleep," Naicë said, as they finished. "And it will lessen the pain as much as can be. Set him down, and we will finish for now. They are bringing fresh bedding." And before Findekáno could speak, she had cast him a wry glance. "And another bed."

He thought he heard his sister stifle a laugh. He chose to ignore her, keeping his attention instead on what he was doing, on the care worth taking in letting Maitimo lie back down, before picking up a new, clean cloth and returning to the work of cleaning how many days, how many weeks of filth off Maitimo's skin.

They could think what they liked, and find amusement where they liked: he _was not_ going anywhere, and if his kinswomen and the nestandë had resigned themselves to that already, sparing him the battle, then he would ignore Irissë's laughter for now. 

There were others in the tent - mostly his sister's aranduri, a few of Itarillë's, though none that he recognized of Nerwen's, but then: Nerwen took oversight of so much that was done about the encampment that to be truthful, if she were here, someone else would need to be doing it. And that was where they probably were.

Findekáno thought briefly, and guiltily, that he should remember at least a few of the names of his sister's women, but he didn't. At least not right now.

Now, Itarillë was preparing more cloth for wrapped bandages and Nerwen placed them where they were needed on Maitimo's arms, legs and feet - for in more than one place the skin on his feet was badly torn, as if he had opened it against the rock. Though many were smaller, still: below Maitimo's shoulders the wounds were enough that because of the tending, much of the skin was already clean before Findekáno could turn to it. 

Nearby, Irissë threaded curved needles for Naicë, or brought her the thin, fine blades she used sometimes to open up wounds that had closed over infection. 

Some wounds and hurts that were shallow they only cleaned - or sometimes Naicë would open the old ones a little, clean them and then leave them that way, pressing clean cloth against it for a moment until the blood stopped flowing and then covering it only loosely with cloth and the glue that Nerwen had used. She said it was because they needed to breathe. 

Findekáno didn't pretend to understand. The miruvórë seemed too long ago now, and his thoughts were becoming crowded and stiff and full of . . . too many things. Images and thoughts he did not wish to think. 

Thoughts that tried to come back, like the moment Turukáno had said his name and it had felt like there was a fire in his head.

Itarillë had made her father and his both go, made them go away - or at least, had begun it, begun the things that had made them leave the tent. Clever girl, and Findekáno was grateful, and he would have to tell her so, some other time, some time that was not now, for just now he could not . . . speak sensibly to anyone. 

Findekáno had heard the note in how his brother said his name, had felt the same in their father's silence, had _known_ what they would say and had known, too, that hearing it would been too much. Their demands for explanation, for justification for what he had done, their recriminations - 

Hearing _that_ when Findekáno could not stop his head _echoing_ with the memory of Maitimo pleading and begging that he kill -

Too much. It would have been too much. And too easy to have done something he would regret. He had likely been on the verge of doing just that.

But instead Itarillë had made them both halt, at least. Brought everything away from that moment. 

Then Findekáno had _read_ the story on his father's face when Irissë had rushed in, had seen Atar consider how this all might go, the likelihood of conflict here, and of Irissë's temper when outraged and distraught, and Findekáno had known he and Turukáno would go. For now.

And that would do. He would speak with them tomorrow. He would be able to speak with them tomorrow without everything going more awry than he could encompass. Maybe.

Not now. He could not do that now. 

He wondered if Nerwen had sent Irissë ahead on purpose. It would be like her. She _knew_ people that way, saw into them and understood them. If there was a way to make all things come out how she desired, she would find it.

Not that there always would be, or had been. Findekáno knew the look her face would get if she looked at something happening and did not like it, yet saw no way to change it to better suit her taste - it was one that looked a great deal like when she had been small, and often angry, but had not often wanted her mother to know she was angry. 

If one did not know Nerwen it would not seem like an angry look. But it was. 

Most people could sense it somehow, though they could not explain what they sensed: that in the always-calm, always-composed, always-thoughtful golden-haired woman, there was an anger that burned like a vast forge that she used in hammering out her wishes.

It was in how almost no one had ever seen her angry, unless they had known her as a very young child, and yet everyone still knew that they did not wish to, and did not cross her.

It came to Findekáno that he had stopped: that he had cleaned the filth from Maitimo's left hand and put down the cloth and stopped, too-cold hand held gently in his right, his left resting on Maitimo's upper arm. And it came to him that he did not know how long he had been thus, looking through hand and arm and side without moving.

Maitimo's fingertips were ravaged, nails broken short and torn. And Findekáno realized that he had noticed his own stillness because Irissë was knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder to shake him a little, because she needed to take Maitimo's hand to see to those hurts as well.

There were hurts to see to, of course. The torn fingernails among them, so that one or two fingers ended up gently wrapped in thin cloth. 

By now most of Maitimo's skin was covered with the white and flax-coloured cloth of wrapped bandages, and more of him was covered with the blanket again.The tent was warm, still, but some of the baskets and boxes had been taken back out, and there was another bed to one side, the net of ropes already pulled taut and someone he did not recognize spreading a featherbed onto the frame and a sheet on top of that.

Naicë sat near one of the braziers, speaking to Itarillë in a low voice, small boxes and little bags of herbs spread out on the cloth in front of them, measuring bits and parts into cups and bowls. Nerwen gestured to the one making the bed, saying, "Bring that close here," and someone else went to help.

Findekáno did not remember when so many people had come. But he shook himself, a little, to shake off the haze and weight, so that he could stand as Nerwen said, "We will need to move him."

He began to say, "I will -"

"You will _not_ ," she interrupted. "You will fall over if you try, and that will aid no one. You may _help_ ," she went on, as he glared at her and was caught, for a moment, with a heat in his breast that he did not think he wanted to loose on her, however much in this moment some part of him thought he did. "You may _help_ Irissë and myself. But if you try it alone, Káno, I will knock you flat on your back and the very fact that I _can_ will prove me right."

It could be difficult to argue with Nerwen, as her height meant that she did not have to look up to hold your gaze - and worse, at the moment Findekáno was not certain he _could_ stop her from throwing him off his feet. At least not without risking doing her harm, or doing someone else harm, or making a mess of the tent. 

So he perhaps had to concede her point.

As if Nerwen saw his thoughts as Findekáno thought them, she nodded and gestured for him to take his place. She and Irissë stood on one side, he on the other, each of them clasping one of his hands beneath Maitimo to lift him. 

As they did, Itarillë pulled the soiled bed away, frame and all; then she darted over to take up a pillow from the ground and set it in place on the clean bed next to them, where they carefully put Maitimo down. 

Letting go of his sister and cousin's hands, Findekáno knelt to carefully adjust the pillow. It was a pointless gesture, in all likelihood, but he cared little. Then he took the blankets that Irissë gave him - one a new, clean linen one, the other to spread on top made of much heavier, warmer wool - and covered Maitimo with them, carefully, tucking the edges in around to be sure he would be warm. 

Findekáno rested fingers gently against Maitimo's cheek, the skin seeming cool but not cold; Maitimo did not stir. 

Irissë held another bundle of cloth out to him as he stood up. He frowned at it - it was not a blanket, and for a moment he could not imagine what it could be, or why she would try to give it to him.

Then he saw that it was . . . clothing, and looked at her in surprise, for surely not now -

Irissë sighed at him. "Háno," she said, in her most patient voice, "look at yourself. You, too, are covered in blood, and dirt, and smoke, and Elentári only knows _what_ else from more than six days, and you are _not_ going to sleep in the lovely bed already being remade for you, still in _that_."

Findekáno frowned at her for a moment longer, until the words turned from a string of noise into sense. Then he did look at the clothes he wore and the blood that was on them, and for a moment he felt ill again and had to close his eyes to keep his balance.

He heard his sister sigh once more; then he felt her hand flat on the front of his shoulder, pushing him gently back to a corner of the tent, where - he saw when he looked - another basin and clean cloth sat on one of the low stools.

"Wash," Irissë said, firmly. "Change. Then you will eat and then you will _sleep_ before you, too, become our nautamo just as Nerwen predicted. We will take the night's watches." 

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Findekáno touched a curved hand to her hair as she did so in a silent thanks, the desire to argue with her gone suddenly. Irissë could do that, sometimes. Not only to him, either.

He wet the cloth and used it on his face and his arms and changed clothing without much care for modesty, suddenly too worn. They - someone among the people here, under his cousins' direction - had pulled both beds to one side, moved two of the braziers close for the warmth. Maitimo hadn't stirred, and seemed as before in the deep senselessness that gave no sign of life beyond shallow breath.

For a moment Findekáno knelt there, touching one of the shallow cuts on his face, and pausing for a moment to feel that breath and be sure of it. He did not wish to move; did not wish to go far enough away that he could not feel that. 

Then Nerwen's voice, full of patience and saying, " _Findekáno_ ," made him give in, and lie down in the bed that he would admit was close enough for now, and rest.

_v._

Nerwen could wish there was more wind. 

They could not leave the door to Findekáno's tent open, nor open the canvas at other points; true enough that her uncle's guards would keep everyone away as much as they could, but as with all her family, Findekáno's tent sat in the centre of the encampment and it would be unwise to tempt any eyes. 

Even those guards themselves. 

But the air hung heavy with the smell of blood touched with infection and woven through with months of one left wretched in poison air and his own filth and if there were more wind, it would take it away more quickly. Make each breath cleaner. 

That would be good for their nautamo, as well as themselves. 

But it was not so, and the air still hung heavy with what ash and smoke outside, and wounds and suffering within. 

That eased a little when two of Itarillë's aranduri took the soiled bedding and cloths and other linen away, though what the launderers would make of any of it, Nerwen could not guess. 

Findekáno scarce laid himself in the cleanly made bed before he was asleep, turned towards the other bed where Nelyafinwë lay. Nerwen was grateful his exhaustion was so great, for now that he was asleep his grief and horror no longer seemed to move against her own mind like the current in the tide of thought. It removed another burden, when there were enough already. 

Though now the greatest burden would be the patience needed, while things hung in uncertain balance. 

When she left Findekáno's tent, several hours after she first entered it, Nerwen found her brother waiting for her in her own, and was not surprised. 

Nor was she surprised, nor moved, by the slightest tinge of martyrdom on Ingoldo’s face. It was not true to say that she had no sympathy for it, but it was true that she felt no guilt for causing what brought it to be.

"If they would have listened to me," she reminded him, mildly, as she stepped into her tent and saw it, "I would have gladly exchanged you for blood, horror, and Findekáno in front of me looking as if someone had cut his heart and lungs out of his body and then set them on fire."

She kept her voice low, though in truth anyone who overheard would have to be very deliberate in their spying, and it would be difficult to achieve. And she could not think of very many people who would be so foolish: to be caught spying on her family's tents in this part of the camp was not something that would end well, and it would be very difficult not to be caught.

Still. She kept her voice low.

Ingoldo waved a hand in acknowledgement and wordless agreement, sitting on one of the low cushioned stools by the brazier, which he had lit and on which now sat a kettle he was absently keeping watch over in preparation for making the yullas that would cut the ash out of both of their throats. 

It gave her a sense of how long ago their uncle and cousin had at least given in to enough sense to keep them quiet over the night: long enough for Ingoldo to be here, and to have lit the charcoal and set the water to heat, but not long enough to have dug the pot for the yullas or the cups out of the chest where she kept them, or set them on her low table by her more comfortable chairs.

So she did that now, crossing to light two more of the lamps while she did so. And still, she wished for more wind - or rain. 

It had not taken much time after she had harried Findekáno to sleep for all the hands then in that tent to become too many at once, for now there was little enough to do except keep watch. They had prepared those things most likely needful, either should something go wrong over the rest of the night or - and Elentári please let it be this - should Nelyafinwë remain in relative peace until morning and regain some kind of wakefulness that could be spoken with then. 

Nerwen's brother watched her as she took out what she needed, and waited until the unavoidable noise of her actions had stopped so that he too could keep his voice low. When she had finished, she crossed to sit with him at the other stool. 

"Will he live?" Ingoldo asked, and Nerwen knew he meant Nelyafinwë. His face was grave, but opaque and Nerwen did not attempt to read much beyond what little she could see. 

She had never been close to Fëanáro's children. Ingoldo, being older, had been for at least some time - if only because for some time, to be close to Turukáno meant being close to his brother. 

And being close to Findekáno meant being close to Nelyafinwë, for there was no space between them that mattered, however their fathers might delude themselves or wish it were otherwise. 

On the other hand, Ingoldo had crossed the Ice, as they all had. And such things came with weight that was not easily set aside, and it made emotions . . . tangled.

Nerwen had no intention of intruding on her brother's privacy as he untangled these; she had faith in his sense, and she would listen if he wished to talk, but if he preferred to comb through it alone, she understood, and would not pry. So she did not attempt to read more into his face and his tone than he chose to show.

"Naicë says he will," she replied, unbinding the ties from her hair and running her fingers through it, feeling the ease of tension against her skin. "Káno too obviously fears he will not, or even that he will not wish to."

At her brother's questioning look she sighed, lifting one hand and letting it drop, letting that motion convey all that she could not adequately answer and how difficult the answers would be. 

"Findekáno cut off his hand to free him from Angamando," she said, and Ingoldo took a deep, rapid breath, "and I do not know even how to _read_ the tale of what other marks there were, nor how his shoulder and side were pulled askew - in truth, háno, I do not think I _want_ to read them, although I suspect I will learn their tale in time whether I want to or not."

Ingoldo's eyes had widened, but he did not interrupt, and Nerwen was grateful for that. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to assemble her thoughts.

"His shoulder is . . . in pieces - each bone is whole but they have all pulled away from each other, he must have hung from that wrist for . . . " she trailed off, and sighed. "A long time. He is so thin I am not sure how he lives, and of the wounds his body bears I do not know how they have not killed him with infection, given all the filth. He stirred only once, and otherwise is so deep in darkness that despite being worried that he will die of thirst, Naicë would not even let us try to give him water, for fear he would breathe it."

That had been unsettling, and Nerwen knew it worried the nestandë. Indeed, Naicë had asked Nerwen to rest now so that Nerwen could assist her later if, as she feared, they needed to drive fluid into his veins. 

It was not how Naicë best wished to do such things: although it could be laborious and tedious, even those who were asleep or in a swoon would most often swallow small spoonfuls of water, and that was generally far safer. More direct intervention risked bleeding and infection, and that the infection would run directly in the blood. 

Naicë had only done it a bare handful of times, and all of those times it had only been because there was nothing else to be done; without it, the sufferer would surely die. 

Nerwen had assisted her with a little over half of them; Elenwë had helped with the others. All but one had lived, but that one had shown how quickly the feared infection could lead to death, and two of those who had survived had still spent time recovering from fever. 

It was among the things you only did if your choice was between that and the certainty of death . 

Naicë had deemed it unneeded as yet, but worried it would become so before Nelyafinwë regained his senses, or at least enough of them that they could get fluid into him without risk that he would breathe it in. 

For if he did that, there _also_ risked infection in his lungs and that would be just as dangerous. 

Ingoldo shared the general discomfort with the details of healing work that nearly all their people felt, but he knew enough from Nerwen to be able to judge the gravity of what she said, and she saw it reflected in his face. 

She sighed again, and finished, "Naicë spent most of her time wearing the look she has when she does not want to explain all she knows to we young flowers - " and she ignored Ingoldo's mildly chiding look at her wry tone, " - for fear she will wilt us, and Nelyafinwë is weak enough that even without being able to give him _any_ hasama for the pain, it barely took Káno, Irissë and I any of our strength to hold him down enough for Naicë to safely trim the cut bone. It only took three of us because it is impossible to hold feet, hips, chest and the other arm, while also holding the injured arm still - with enough arms, _Itarillë_ could have done it alone and not so much as wearied herself." 

At the look of unease with her words he got, she gave her brother a look of dark amusement, and he again silently acknowledged that he probably would _not_ have preferred to exchange tasks with her, however difficult their kinsmen had been. 

Few of their folk wished to know how injury and healing truly worked. Her brother was not much different. 

"That is all I know, as yet," she finished. "And I will be going back - Itarillë has taken the first watch, with Naicë, Irissë will take the second and I have the third. But Káno was already listing on his feet, so we had another bed made and for now he too is sleeping. Discovering the rest of the tale from him . . . will have to wait."

Ingoldo nodded, and then turned to lift the kettle off the coals and indicated the table with the yullas-pot - the table and the more comfortable chairs.

Nerwen nodded, rose and crossed to them, sitting in her customary chair and lifting the lid from the pot so that he could pour the water over it.

Her brother sat, then, setting the kettle aside on its trivet. He glanced at Nerwen, took in the obvious and deliberate question in her face, and then took his turn to sigh.

"You did me a kindness sending Irissë ahead of us," he began.

"I did not _send_ her," Nerwen corrected him, meticulous, and this was true, so far as it went. "I only made certain she knew as soon as possible, even if I could not stop to tell her much before coming to find you."

If only because one took a substantial risk in trying to _send_ Irissë anywhere if that was what she thought you were doing, and Nerwen had not felt as if that risk should be taken just then. But catch their cousin's interest and she would run wherever it pointed without brooking any delay.

Ingoldo gave her a knowing look, which Nerwen ignored, or at least pretended to.

"Of course," he said, mildly. "Regardless. I believe it helped; Nolofinwë never relishes the chance of an outcry from her, and it was clear there would be one, so that checked his first impulse. Itarillë had already intervened, and I think she might have carried the moment, but without Irissë it might well have been an uglier moment to carry."

"Itarillë intends to come here, when her watch is finished," Nerwen replied, which amounted to an agreement. Ingoldo grimaced, as he had to know Turukáno would hardly _like_ that, but Nerwen didn't think he could see any point of argument.

"I am not sure Turukáno knows what to think of what Itarillë did," he sighed, as Nerwen took the lid off the yullas and stirred it before putting the lid back and lifting the pot to pour it out, "but he sees Elenwë's body wherever he looks, and it will take him some time to think past that. Maybe tomorrow, maybe later - maybe never."

"Come tomorrow," Nerwen replied, "his brother will be able fight him for himself, and probably won't kill him." Ingoldo looked at her, disbelieving, and she exhaled sharply. "Trust me, háno."

His look did not waver, but changed from disbelieving to thoughtful.

"I can credit you," he said after a moment, "for you saw him long enough to tell his mood - but how did you _know_ , nésa?"

And he meant _before_ she had seen him, or either of them, either brother together or separate, as more than faint shapes in the near distance; how she had known that such interventions would be needed in time to make them.

Nerwen restrained this sigh: at least he asked, and believed her when she worked it out, and did not make the mistake of insisting that because she could not explain it simply or make it instantly clear, she couldn't know.

It could be a struggle, to find words to put around these things that others would understand. So often, it was difficult to understand why they did not see things that seemed self-evident, and that had always been true. When she had been very young, it had frustrated her greatly: they would ask how she knew, and she would wish to demand how they knew that the wind blew, or which way sound came from, or what colour something was.

You paid heed, and you knew. Yet somehow, it did not work that way for others.

She pulled her hair over her shoulder to braid it simply as she spoke, as much for something to do with her hands as preparation for eventual rest.

"He left," she said, slowly, meaning Findekáno, running her thoughts through the last seven days and more as she might run her fingers through her hair to take out tangles and separate it piece by piece to braid or twist into its right shape. "Alone. He did not even try to convince anyone else to this course of action, háno, and you know he could have convinced Nornasímo and Aikanáro both, if only because they love him, but he did not. He did not even tell them."

She paused and took a drink from her cup, now that it had cooled a little. 

"For all Findekáno's . . . " she paused, choosing her words, " - _surety_ in himself, he is not truly a fool. He knew that he could easily die, trying this. Or hand our Enemy _another_ prisoner. He went anyway, and he went without asking anyone to help him. He chose to spend his life, and he thought it would be worth the cost. He did not bother to try to convince his father, or you, or even me - he did not believe we would think the matter worth spending time or risk on. And he did not tell those who he knew would help, because he thought it would only get them killed, or worse."

For a moment she paused, putting the next part together while her brother waited, for this was the crux of it, she knew. Where everything had come to a point and become clear. She had to turn it over very carefully to look at it.

When she went on, she said, "And yet then he came back, all the way to us - back _brought by an Eagle_ , and not helping a wounded companion, Ingoldo. Bearing a senseless burden. And yet with his feet on the ground, he called no greeting."

That, she realized, had been the true heart of it: that despite what he had done, despite the Eagle that had brought him home, he had made no sound to them. No greeting, no call, no crow of triumph, neither a request nor a demand for help. He had said nothing. Not one word.

Had only bowed to Thorondor and then knelt to shield his burden when the Eagle leapt to the sky, and after gathered that burden from the ground and made his way to the tent.

 _His_ tent. Not the Asiëmar, not to the sanctuary and place of healing, not to where aid for the bleeding shape he carried would be most immediately to hand - no. To _his_ tent, the space that felt most his own, and that would be empty of all others, and would not put his burden at any more risk from . . . anyone else.

Nerwen began to wrap the end of the braid in the cord.

"I know our cousin," she said. "I know what to expect of him, the greatest part of the time." 

She paused, finishing the tie, and then looked directly at her brother. "I also know the _depth_ of love you have all pretended - since before Fëanáro's removal to Formenos - that you did not see, the wound you all pretended did not open when we saw the ships burning, nor that bled every step across Helcaraxë, and the grief you all pretended he did not have written all over him the moment we found out that Nelyafinwë had been taken captive. And I did not ignore it, or pretend I could not see it, or did not know what I saw."

Ingoldo grimaced and looked away, but did not argue, nor protest that it was not true. Ingoldo was not inclined to deny an obvious truth; it was another thing she valued in her eldest brother. 

It had suited the rest of her kindred, Nerwen knew, to believe that because Findekáno did not try to go to Formenos and Nelyafinwë did not try to stay in Tirion, it meant their fathers - and Fëanáro most of all - had finally killed whatever lay between them. Most of her kin had counted it a relief, for any one of a half-dozen reasons.

Nerwen had not bothered to tell them they were being foolish: they would not have listened, and she knew they would find out themselves, given time. And now those alive would, indeed, learn themselves. 

"He was happy to risk his own capture, Ingoldo," she went on. "And he knew that nobody would help him - and yet he came back here because he had nowhere else to go if he wanted Nelyafinwë to live. The thoughtless need and fear and grief that tells me of would be more than enough to drive him to strike at someone unwise enough to challenge whether the one he rescued was worth the risk. And _every_ question would sound like such a challenge - let alone the angry interrogation that was likely to come. 

"For I know Turukáno, too," she said, and now Ingoldo nodded slowly. "In the belated fear that he might have lost his brother, and the anger at being made to feel such fear, I have little doubt he would have found in that moment the perfect words to make Findekáno go for his throat. And then however much either of them would have regretted it later would not have been enough to undo the moment, however it ended. And we would have had to be very lucky _indeed_ for it not to end without at least one of them badly hurt."

Nerwen toyed with the end of her braid for a moment, considering all of it again, and nodded a little. "That is how I knew," she said, almost to herself.

Her brother looked up for a long moment, as if he too were considering and running his thoughts through all of what she had just told him.

Then he said, "There are times you frighten me, nésa." It was the kind of thing he had said before.

"Liar," she replied, placidly, taking another drink of her yullas. Ingoldo's mouth twitched.

"Very well," he amended, "there are times you probably _should_."

"Why?" she retorted. "When has what I think is best ever run counter to what you want? In the end of all? And I was right," she added.

She tied off the braid and then said, "As I said, I do not know, yet, what happened. Not in any detail - not how he found Nelyafinwë, nor certainly why Manwë's messenger deigned to help him return. But whatever it was, it was not easy, and I think Nelyafinwë spent many words begging for death, before Findekáno found how to free him. I would not be surprised, indeed, if Findekáno nearly did kill him."

Her brother's exhale came heavily, and he rubbed his forehead with one hand. "I . . . do not know how his brother will . . . take all of this, in truth. In the end."

"Turukáno can fight with Itarillë in private over whether his grief at the loss of a wife outmatches hers at the loss of a mother," Nerwen said, and knew her voice had gone edged.

She was not without pity for her cousin, for his loss, but he often seemed to her to forget that he was far from the only one who left pieces of his heart behind him, and with Itarillë still alive he had come out better than many. And that he did not speak for all of them, either: that his grief was not an emblem for theirs, nor did it grant him authority in itself.

"Do you know why she chose - " Ingoldo began, but Nerwen cut him off.

"Because she has more sense than can fit in an infant's cup," she said, tartly this time. Ingoldo raised both eyebrows at her, but she ignored that. "Because she remembers why we are _all_ here, what drew us in, and has the sense to think how much worse that pull might be on children he raised, or who raised each other, knowing each of the others would go. Because she remembers that they were _at_ Formenos when Haru was killed, unlike the rest of us, and what _that_ might mean when their father found out - and found that Haru was dead and they lived and had fled as everyone else had done."

At that, Ingoldo grimaced faintly again, but raised his cup slightly to acknowledge the point.

Nerwen concluded, "Because she is in truth a great deal wiser than her father is and sometimes even wiser than his father, and knows well enough that what first we _feel_ , however understandable it might be, is not the same as what is best to _do_. And because she also has the sense to know, as do we, that for all his recklessness and with all else aside, Findekáno is right, and the longer we remain divided, the more chance we give our Enemy to destroy us."

After a pause, she went on, "I do not know if she is subtle enough to have seen already what else this does, what it means to have Nelyafinwë indebted so deeply or completely to Findekáno, and still alive. Her soul may be too gentle."

The more fortunate she, if so, Nerwen thought privately but chose not to say. She did not like thinking so; she did not like that hard on the heels of her first thoughts had come that second spatter of them across her mind. 

That as long as Nelyafinwë lived and regained enough strength that he could make his brothers answer to him, then the feud was over - over, and in Nolofinwë's favour, without question of any kind.

It was grotesque, to look at someone's suffering and see how it would serve a useful purpose - and yet if she was right, and she knew she was, then likely it would avert further suffering for many others. 

Nerwen was not sure how much better that made it, but she would also, she supposed, take what she could get.

"I think I succeeded in planting the seed of that idea," Ingoldo said, a wry twist to his mouth because he would know exactly what she was thinking, and had thought the same, for they had spoken about these things before - but then that softened into amusement. "I suppose it may count as practice."

Nerwen laughed, brief and soft and low: neither of them had forgotten, yet, the stories from their mother's father about _his_ brother's temper, nor how what had first bound himself, his brother and Finwë in friendship was the way in which Finwë could match Elwë and outface his more wilful moments, and yet hold no ill will. 

If what they struggled to understand from the Avari messengers they had met so far was true, managing that might still be a test for both of them, for it seemed to be that Elwë thought to lay claim to the whole continent, for all that he could for now only defend a small heartland. 

It would probably be best to continue practicing at managing uncles.

"Our brothers?" she asked, the concerns now more private but, to be honest, not less.

"Conflicted," he replied, "but I think more in loyalty than anything else. Or maybe better to say, troubled by conflict, or the potential for conflict, where those they love stand on both sides, and unsure which position is correct - and you know I cannot tell them all yet."

Nerwen nodded; the pose that her eldest brother would need to take at least until their uncle had recovered his composure would be one of troubled restraint, as if he too were dismayed at least a little by what Findekáno had done, and for the same reasons as Nolofinwë and Turukáno were, and also as if he was merely doing his best to consider the advantages and challenges of the new situation.

Their brothers were not . . . adept enough, as it were, at hiding what they felt to be allowed to know otherwise. Not yet. She and Ingoldo would owe all of them the full truth later, but only after it could not do harm that none of them wished done. 

"Truth be told, I would not expect it to take that long for Findekáno to convince them of . . . whatever he cares to try to convince them of, as usual," Ingoldo concluded, "Nornasímo and Aikanáro at least, and you know that Irirainwë will be content enough as long as nobody is holding a blade to anyone's throat."

Nerwen feigned a wince and said, with mock solemnity, "Do not jest on that score; Káno had a dagger on his belt still before his sister reminded him not to wear blood to sleep."

Ingoldo stood, and then stooped to kiss her forehead. "Take some rest," he suggested. "I am going to walk by the lake, and hope it has some . . . .tranquil council."

He meant that he was going to go tell the water all his frustrations; their mother did that, and strongly counselled them all to follow her example. Ingoldo often did; Nerwen, maybe not as often as she should.

She kissed her brother's cheek and said, "Tell the water I am _very_ tired and I wish Atar were here." It was the kind of thing she could only say to him. Or, for that matter, the water. He gently squeezed her shoulder, and she his hand, before he left.

Then she lay down on her bed and closed her eyes, trying to quiet her mind, to wait until her arandurë Indomarië woke her for the third watch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead, in the early morning, what dragged Findekáno just as quickly _out_ of that blessedly dreamless darkness into waking as he had been dragged _into_ it last night was a painful rasping cry mingled with the clatter of wood striking wood and the ground, a second cry of dismay - higher and softer - and the sound of a pottery vessel breaking.

**II**

_i_

The Ice had shown Findekáno many things he did not expect. 

Many if not most of them were deep and agonizing and strangely private, as if the cold and the dark worked their way in around each and every one of them as they struggled to cross it until reaching each other could be as impossible as reaching warmth or light or rest. Or perhaps that had just been he himself. 

He did not truly know: he had not spoken to anyone of it and had no intention of doing so.

It had struck him how even on the ice, there had been so much life. Kelvar of a handful of kinds, sleek round shapes that almost seemed like fish but were not fish, had fur and suckled young, awkward and bloated-seeming on land and then fast as thought in the water; strange birds that flew through the water instead of the air; white puffs of creatures like foxes made out of clouds that followed the vast, elegant white bears. 

And those bears themselves, beautiful, terrible creatures that saw no difference between food that walked on two legs, food that walked on four and food that swam through the water under the ice, but yet held no malice against anything.

The irony in the way that this made them harder to foresee, harder to avoid did nothing for anyone except perhaps Nerwen in her most perverse mood. And maybe Naicë, and some of her students.

Under the ice there had been so many fish it seemed impossible that there could be anything for _them_ to eat, and Findekáno still wondered what they could feed on. But it seemed they did: fed and lived and flourished.

And then, at the edges of the ice where it became the ocean, where it was most dangerous to be and yet they nevertheless had sometimes been forced to walk, Findekáno had seen great dark shapes in the ocean: black above and white below, sleek and fast and deadly as an arrow. Like the bears, they hunted the fur-bearing strange-shaped kelvar that the hunters called _lutpolca_ , except that they did it in the water and in packs.

And if the lutpolca took refuge on the ice, those swimming packs seemed to harness the water itself, working some art together to drag it with them in a great wave, driving the floating ice under and washing the creature from its safety and into their jaws.

It had been both beautiful and terrible to watch, and it stayed with Findekáno ever after.

Sleep felt like it did that to him, that night. As if when he lay down it dragged senselessness over him in a wave and overwhelmed him, sending his thoughts tumbling to be caught and dragged down into darkness beyond dreams. The kind of sleep that does strengthen, but does not feel like rest unless you let it run its full course, to swim slowly all the way back to the surface of wakefulness in full time, without hurry.

That did not happen.

Instead, in the early morning, what dragged Findekáno just as quickly _out_ of that blessedly dreamless darkness into waking as he had been dragged _into_ it last night was a painful rasping cry mingled with the clatter of wood striking wood and the ground, a second cry of dismay - higher and softer - and the sound of a pottery vessel breaking.

Findekáno woke and sat in one thought, and this time it was memory that felt like the overwhelming wave: where he was, where he had gone, what he had _done_ , the Eagle and their return, all of it.

Then, as that wave rocked back, the space was filled by what he saw, and he strove to make sense of it. It felt as if it came piece by piece: Irissë, standing, clearly having drawn back and also having dropped the bowl she carried, which must have struck a stone under the carpets and broken; the other bed fallen on its side, featherbed and blanket in disarray, sheet and blanket spotted here and there with faint spots of blood.

And then Maitimo, whose cry had been the first part of what woke Findekáno, lying curled on the floor, huddled back against the fallen bed, tangled in part of the bedding, unmaimed arm protecting his head.

Findekáno's mind felt sluggish, flowing like sap of a tree bound up with cold. His sister stared at Maitimo, dismay written across her face; then she looked to Findekáno as if she thought he would have an answer to every unspoken question he could read in her face. 

The loudest being, _why?_

Why was any of this as it was? 

Reading the meaning in every piece of what he saw took what felt like a very long time, not least because it made no sense. Findekáno could see what must have happened, to a point: Irissë must have heard Maitimo stir, gone to bring - what, water? Broth? Something - and then . . .

And then Maitimo had recoiled from her so violently that the bed fell, and she startled, and now . . . .this.

And now Maitimo huddled on the ground as if in abject terror, and it made no sense. Findekáno supposed there might be harts or hinds out there, somewhere, who could be frightened by the sight of his sister, but else -

And yet. And yet he could see what was before him. 

It felt to him like a very long time, but in the end Findekáno did not think it took him more than a moment to clutch enough straws to weave himself a line sturdy enough to follow. Or to try to. 

He stood, carefully, and beckoned Irissë to come close enough to hear him tell her to go find Naicë, or Nerwen, without having to speak above a murmur; she went quickly enough that Findekáno assumed she was relieved more than anything. 

Then, at a loss, he went to kneel, just as carefully, beside his cousin. 

Matching the faint spots of blood on the bedding were the darker points on the bandages, some now in disarray, some of those that Nerwen had affixed with her special glue now wholly gone and the wounds under them revealed, mostly scabbed and closed over. The dull dirty red of it seemed like an obscenity, but worse was the way Maitimo's bones seemed like jagged rock scraping at fragile leather, every movement risking that the sharp edges would rip through skin stretched too tight across them. 

He knew that bodies did not, _could_ not . . . _work_ like that; there could be no way that Maitimo's bones scraped the inside of his skin raw. But as Findekáno watched the cage of Maitimo's ribs stretch and collapse with each rapid shallow breath, in he felt as if it _must,_ and it hurt to see. 

All of it hurt to see, all of it was . . . _wrong_ , wholly and utterly wrong and not least that Maitimo yet remained where he was on the floor, and - 

Afraid. 

Findekáno did not know what to do but he could not do nothing. And so, hesitant, movement halting, he reached out one hand to carefully lay it on Maitimo's bare, uninjured shoulder.

Maitimo flinched before Findekáno's hand even touched his skin. He cringed back against the ground and the fallen bedframe, curling tighter around himself and making a noise that sounded like one of pain. 

He was shivering, Findekáno realized - shaking and breathing in short, painful gasps, fracturing a litany of _please_ and _no,_ and other more desperate, broken words in a rasping, broken voice: _no more_ and _not this_ ; _please_ and _I beg_ and then again _no more_.

"Maitimo," Findekáno began, but Maitimo made a sound like a choked cry, a whimper and silence, even pleading suppressed in a trembling spasm, breath choked to seeming as little as Maitimo could take.

The moment and silence gaped for a moment that felt like a crack in the world. It felt like the moment he looked out over dark water and saw light where there should be none, fire clawing at the sky like bloody fingers - like, and yet _worse_ , and he had not thought before that any moment could be worse. 

For in that moment he had known what it meant, what it signified, even if what it signified rent a hole in his mind and in his world, where now, this, in this moment . . .

Nothing. 

In this moment he did not know. In this moment he did not understand. In this moment he was lost. The void tore open in front of him and he sat there for a moment, stupid and mute in the face of it because he _did not_ understand, he could not _conceive_ , imagine what it might mean, what in _any part_ of Eä could make Maitimo do this. 

Shrink from him like this. From _him_ , like this, cringing and desperate and - 

\- terrified. 

What could drive this much fear into him at all . . . maybe. Maybe Findekáno could grasp at that - barely, in thoughts he did not want to think, that made him sick, that much maybe he could darkly conceive. What could bring this terror of something, some . . . unknown, unspeakable thing, _maybe_ he could see. 

But not . . .

Not from him.

That Findekáno could not conceive. That made no sense. That he could not even stumble towards understanding and _he did not know what to do_. 

After a moment, slowly, Findekáno sat down on the ground. In that moment, frozen and stretched until it felt as if it would shatter, nothing changed; nothing came to him; nothing became clear. But he could _not_ \- 

He still did not know what to do but he still could not do nothing and so he sat, carefully. Moved closer, just as carefully. 

This time, though again it brought a flinch, Findekáno rested his hand gently on Maitimo's shoulder, careful to avoid any of the stitches or cuts. 

It still seemed as if Maitimo must be holding his breath, for he remained stilled except for the shivering that Findekáno could now feel under his hand and even that was somehow suppressed and small, as if it were only what could not be controlled. And if it was strange and dismaying to _see_ Maitimo's wounded, wasted shape it was more that to feel it again. No less nor less painful than the night before. 

More, maybe. Last night he had been reeling himself, weary and stretched thin, stumbling from one moment to the next and liable to go still and stare into nothing if no new task presented itself. Now he was rested; _now_ he could . . . understand what he felt, what it meant, and now he could think of when he had touched Maitimo, the same place, the same shoulder, and it had been . . . 

Different. 

Findekáno kept his touch light, the weight of his hand little, for it also felt almost as if he could . . . break bone, tear skin, far too easily - _far_ too easily. He did not know if that was true or some absurd fancy but he still felt it and he felt such a great need to take care. 

"Maitinya," he said. Tried. "Maitinya," and, "Maitimo, tyenya - please, melindo. Look at me?" And when Maitimo gave no sign, Findekáno hesitated, then added, "Nelyo? Though tyenya - I will laugh if you answer that."

Because Maitimo hated that name, that form, tolerated it only from his father, his brothers when his father had been near, and - rarely, in play, carefully - from Findekáno. 

But maybe that gesture at play would reach him. _Convince_ him. 

Findekáno didn't know, could not have said - indeed, he was not _sure_ he understood rightly, could only . . . guess, assume, that somehow Maitimo did not know -

No, he scolded himself as the thought took unsteady shape, of course Maitimo did not _know_ where he was, not _precisely,_ how could he but that - that wasn't the point, the point was that Maitimo somehow did not know . . . that he was safe. That it was safe, what . . . kind of place it was.

Who surrounded him.

Who was here, with him.

Somehow, he did not know that. Somehow he did not believe it. And somehow Findekáno had to convince him. 

Now, though, Maitimo stilled. Wholly stilled, even the trembling, such that for a heartbeat Findekáno was alarmed - but Maitimo did not fall, did not collapse into death or unconsciousness. 

For a moment he did not move, nor yet look, but after that moment there came one sharp breath, and then another. And more, breathing that came near to normal, as near to it as any of this could be. And he still no longer shook. 

Carefully, Findekáno moved his hand from shoulder to arm. When that did not bring a further flinch nor recoil, he gently slid his palm over skin broken by the rasp of scratches and stitches, to Maitimo's hand where it shielded his head. Findekáno took it in his own. 

"Melindo, melindyo," he said, as gently as he could. "Please - sit up. Look at me."

Then he had to let go of Maitimo's hand, and cursed himself quietly for forgetting - forgetting not only that Maitimo's right hand was _gone_ , that his arm would be agony, but also that the brace held it against his side, would make it all the more useless.

Suddenly, he wondered if that was part -

But now, warily, Maitimo did push himself to sit, though it seemed to take great effort and he moved very slowly indeed. He looked around himself, at the floor, at the cloth of the blankets tangled around his emaciated legs, and at his own maimed arm, caught and held close to him by the brace, and his other arm, with bandages wrapped around the places where the wounds had been deep enough to need them.

Findekáno felt as if he dared not move. And so he did not, while Maitimo looked at these things, and at the fallen frame and featherbed, and the rest of the tent's floor, all around him. 

It took some time before Maitimo would raise his eyes to Findekáno's face, and Findekáno spent those moments unsure, achingly unsure of what he should do. Wanted to speak, to touch him, to _ask_ what he should do, wanted . . . something other than the silence.

Did not know what would make anything better, or worse.

So he stayed silent, still, as Maitimo looked at him, at the tent, and then back to him, watching his face as if waiting for it to change, waiting for everything to change, for the deception to be revealed. For . . . . something.

When Maitimo spoke it was without sound, without breath, as if something was catching the air in his throat and so all that came out was the shape, cracked lips shaping _Káno_ without any sound - yet it still threw Findekáno's heart up into his throat. 

Maitimo shifted to take the weight off his hand and reached it back out to him, halting, moving as if at any point all of this would . . . change. Become something else, something . . .

Findekáno did not know, did not _want_ to know, or even think more on what there could _be_ to know.

Instead he caught Maitimo's hand in both of his and kissed it, palm and wrist. He felt the broken skin of Maitimo's palm against his mouth, and the cloth of the bandage; too, he saw and felt the scraped wreckage of Maitimo's fingertips, nails uneven and torn and in some places nearly missing, nail-bed raw and exposed because the glue on the gauze covering them had not been strong enough to withstand his desperate recoil. 

And he felt and grieved at how tightly Maitimo seemed to wish to clutch at his hands in return, and yet how weak Maitimo's grip was for all of that. 

No stronger than a child's, and with all the desperation a frightened child's grip could hold.

"I am here," Findekáno said, feeling his own throat close and swallowing to free it, so that he could speak and keep his voice clear. He touched Maitimo's face with his free hand, keeping hold of Maitimo's hand with the other as Maitimo's gaze dropped a little, eyes far too wide, looking at Findekáno's shoulder as if he could see through it. 

Maitimo's breathing remained sharp and shallow as Findekáno repeated, "I am here, you are here, you are -"

At this he stumbled, because he began to say _home_ , but could not even think what that would mean, now; this was not home, and his thought balked even at the idea that it could be home, for he did not - 

So Findekáno stopped himself, and instead went on, " - safe. You are safe, tyenya."

Maitimo's gaze dropped to their hands, his own grip still as tight as it could be. There was the shape again of Findekáno's name, and then breath, and then voice - broken, rough, uneven quiet voice, but voice: " _Káno_ \- " 

And, " - you are . . .real, you - " and the sound of his voice was pained and painful to hear, it was so ravaged Findekáno felt his eyes burn and had to blink, quickly, to keep them clear; and Maitimo said, " - you are . . . here, you . . . are real, Káno - I - " 

It was too much, the uncertainty, the _fear_ of believing that he could hear was too much and so Findekáno caught Maitimo's chin to raise his eyes again, raise them to meet his own. 

" _Tyenya_ ," he said, moving and shifting how he sat to be as close as he could, as Maitimo's gaze seemed to search his face, his hand cradling Maitimo's, " - yes. I am here. I am here. _You_ are here; you are _safe_." 

For a moment Maitimo's gaze met his and stayed; then Maitimo seemed to look to his mouth, and throat, and for a moment gazed through him, so that Findekáno brushed his fingers through the shortened mess of Maitimo's hair. 

Said, carefully, "Maitinya - I found you. You are safe. I am here, and you are safe."

With a sound that seemed caught deep in his chest, pained and broken, Maitimo crumpled, collapsing. It was if he could no longer hold himself, as if the breath taken by the sound had carved out some strength into hollowness and he caved in around it; he had to let go of Findekáno's hand to catch himself as he fell and the breath he took after was as pained a break as what came before. 

The sound struck Findekáno like some horrible blow, knocking all thought from his mind but the need to answer it, so that before he knew what he did he had pulled Maitimo to him, holding him close and tightly, thoughtless and reckless and most likely unwise- 

\- but this time, Maitimo did not flinch from Findekáno's hands, did not cringe back or shrink away; instead let Findekáno catch him and gather him in and hold him, wrap both arms around him; and he clung to Findekáno's clothing, his shoulder, with his free hand. 

Elentári's mercy. Or Nyeretári's. _Someone_ 's. 

For that cry had hurt. It _hurt_. As thought now followed deed, as it struck him that he might have done ill without wishing it and was fortunate that he had not, still: Findekáno could not think what he _would_ have done if Maitimo had pulled away, for the thought of not holding him close now was a horror by itself. 

To have to listen, to see and hear _this_ without being able to touch him or comfort him, was more than Findekáno could stand to imagine, let alone do. 

It still hurt. Maitimo seemed curled around a core of agony, as Findekáno shifted how he sat, to better draw Maitimo to him and hold him close, to wrap his arms around Maitimo and _hold_ him, and to try to find some way that did not risk further pain - but Maitimo also clung to Findekáno's arm as if he could curl even closer to _him_. As if that was all he could want.

Maitimo did not weep; his eyes were dry, and though each breath scraped and heaved they were not sobs, not wholly. There had been times on the Ice and before that Findekáno remembered, where the tightness of fear or worry had suddenly released and it seemed as if the air became difficult to breathe, so that he was left gasping, and it seemed kin to that - but worse, so much worse, so that the relief itself became a new pain and suffering and he wished he knew what to do beyond this. 

Beyond holding Maitimo as close as he dared. But that was all he knew, and so he did. 

And there was strangeness in this, strangeness that struck familiarity through and through and then twisted back, wounding and winding tight around it: Maitimo's body against his, Maitimo in his arms as familiar as his own, as himself - yet alien in the sharpness of joint and bone where flesh had wasted away, and shivering, gasping breaths. Wasting pain and wreckage of body and mind and soul so known and loved - it cut Findekáno like a _knife_. 

Like the edge of jagged ice. Or something worse.

It had first struck Findekáno on the mountain, at the foot of the cliff, that jarring clash of memory and present; it had hurt to _see_ what had become and it had torn at him. 

It hurt more now, to feel it. To hold Maitimo, and feel it, as Maitimo shivered against him. 

Findekáno pulled the blanket closer and wrapped it around Maitimo as he held him, the action rote more than sense - he did not truly think the shaking was from cold, but could think of little else to do to ease . . . anything, beyond holding him close, one hand cradling Maitimo's head against the front of his shoulder.

And he _needed_ to ease this - the pain of each breath wrung out, he could _feel_ it. Not even as if it was his own - that was the horror of it, that he could feel it and yet knew it had to be worse for the one it wracked. He needed to do something for it, and all that he could think was that warmth might ease the trembling. Do something. 

_I beg you, kill me,_ his memory echoed again: Maitimo's voice, louder then, but just as broken. _Melindo, onóro,_ héru - _please_ -

And then just here, a new echo: _you are real_ , hesitant and disbelieving, as if that were so difficult, so nearly impossible to believe, and so overwhelming to find true. Almost as if far, far too often, it had not been true. As if Maitimo had reason to disbelieve -

There was something Findekáno could not grasp, something that would let him knit some understanding together and make more clear to him, and at the same time that he needed to find it, Findekáno found himself deeply uneasy with what it might be, and what he might learn.

What it could _be_ that could possibly, _possibly_ mean Maitimo might look at _him_ and see something to fear.

Whatever it was, he already hated it, and he found himself doubting that knowing what it was would make anything easier. And so while he needed to learn it, he dreaded what he would learn. 

For now, he wrapped the blanket close to keep Maitimo as warm as he could and cradled Maitimo's head against his shoulder, rocking very slightly and murmuring _shhh, tyenya,_ and other words of comfort as he could think of them. 

Findekáno heard the soft low hiss of moving canvas. He looked up to see Naicë enter, Irissë anxious behind her, wringing her hands - and he could read the apology in his sister's glance well enough to know that they had been waiting outside for some while. That it had not taken Irissë this long to find the nestandë.

They had stayed outside before now, waiting and most likely listening, by Naicë's choice.

Before Findekáno had time to encompass that, to even know _what_ he felt of it, whether he was confused or angered by it, or anything else, Naicë had begun to speak as she set down the bag she carried on a table that Findekáno had not until now noticed stood where it did. 

"It would not have helped to have anyone else here before now," the nestandë said, as if in answer to the question Findekáno had not yet had time to shape into words. "It might well have made things worse; I waited until our presence would not cause more harm than help."

Then as Findekáno struggled to comprehend that, Naicë murmured something to his sister he could not hear, and Irissë nodded and ducked back out of the tent.

Maitimo stayed curled in his arms, and Findekáno was not sure, even, that Maitimo knew someone else was now here with them. If he could imagine that far beyond the circle of their bodies. 

Maitimo shook, still, though his breathing now sounded merely like the kind painful breaths that wracked the body with their violence, instead of more as if someone was cutting each one out of him with a dull and jagged knife. Findekáno remembered the way Maitimo's shoulder and ribcage had seemed askew, before, remembered the spreading deep bruise, could see its finished traces now underneath the brace, and knew that each movement must still be painful, each deep or rapid breath agony.

It _had_ to hurt. It hurt _him_ to listen to.

And yet for all their violence the not-quite-sobs were not as loud as Findekáno felt sure they should have been - Maitimo's voice still rasping, broken, and weak, even in this. Still itself wounded, damaged. Even his voice. 

Findekáno watched, still feeling off-balance and as if he struggled to catch up in some race, as Naicë lifted the bed-frame up off the ground and set it aright, and then sat on the corner, her face both grave and somehow appraising. She had changed out of the blood-marked clothing of the night before into grey-green, and in the light of day she seemed more resigned, and maybe weary, but also settled as if for a long effort. 

"I knew the very great chance of this," she said, calmly, "indeed, it is why I allowed you to stay, and to sleep here, once I knew the state of my nautamo. Your cousin's well-founded understanding aside, believe me, grandson of Finwë, if I had needed to make you leave I could have done so - I can wield guilt and concern easily enough. Even against your kin."

Findekáno had already bitten down the sharp answer that welled the moment she began to speak. He was not yet even sure what it was he was angry with, other than that things could be as they were, with her words merely . . . . like the point of still-lightning discharging when you touched something, biting sharp into your hand. That did not mean she deserved his ire, or that he should let it fly, and he forced himself to hold back. 

And biting back the unknown words, the effort and pause of it, let him think

\- mostly. A little, at the least.

And she might be right. Had she told him he must leave because that was the way of things, he would have ignored her, for all that he had depended on it to avoid dealing with his father and his brother; but had she told him he would do harm by staying, and how that might be -

Then, yes. If Findekáno had believed her, he would have gone.

But she had not done that. Had simply . . . behaved as if Nerwen's words had convinced her not to try. Because she thought something . . . like this might happen?

It seemed to him as if this should not be so difficult to understand, and yet he felt as if he were struggling in rough waters, the waves slapping him in the face and driving mouthfuls down his throat, leaving him to sputter and flail.

"I do not understand you," he told Naicë, instead of anything else he might have said, keeping a rein on his temper. Her face remained calm and grave.

"I know," she said. "There is a great deal you do not understand, and could not yet hope to. You will, but not yet. For now, let it simply be that I expected that Nelyafinwë's first waking would be fearful, terrified, and that you had the best chance of breaking through that terror before it brought some greater harm, and without doing harm yourself. In truth, you have done better than I allowed myself to hope; alas, though, the relief of such terror is often its own trial and distress." 

"Why?" Findekáno demanded, the question near a reflex, and he was not surprised when Naicë shook her head. 

"That can wait, Nolofinwion," she said, firmly. "What is more important is that I need you to calm him, for I will not be able to do it without resorting to measures that will hurt him more, both now and later - but I _need_ him to be calm enough that he can take some food, and water. And that _is_ far more important, Findekáno," she said, raising a hand to forestall what else he might say for the moment. "He is urgently in need of fluid and nourishment, and it cannot wait much longer without great risk to his life. All else can."

Forcing himself to release his jaw before a tooth cracked or chipped, Findekáno nodded, and she seemed satisfied.

In truth he did not know what he would have said, demanded. He would likely have discovered it as he spoke. 

"This may happen again, when next he wakes," Naicë added, standing, and now Findekáno stared at her, "maybe more than once if we are unlucky, so take some care to remember what you do. You may need to do so again."

" - _why_?" was the question that he once again found out of the seething throng throwing themselves about his mind to ask - perhaps not that with the most thought, but the most deeply felt.

Naicë regarded him steadily, and the look she gave him, he could not read. Then she shook her head.

"Not now," she replied. "If you cannot guess yet, we will speak of it later - it is not that pressing and later you will have time to think about what I will have to tell you. Right now it _is_ urgent that he have food and drink as soon as he can, so turn your mind to that."

There were heated words that rose in him, resentful of hints and dark comments, impatient that she _tell him_ \- but Findekáno swallowed them, for all it burned his throat like a brief gulp of etching-acids to do it.

For one thing, the anger was not truly with her and he knew that well, and so at the same time it was unjust to turn it on her; for another, it would do little, which he also knew well, and so there was just as little purpose to it. 

And last, about the urgency of food and drink, he knew she spoke truth.

There had been those, in crossing the Ice, who thought they could deprive themselves for the sake of those they loved; those who passed all food and most drink on to a child, or a parent, a sibling or a beloved, all without saying and with the intent of suffering so that the one they loved did not. 

But such things had their limits, and more than one had found those limits unexpectedly.

So Findekáno had seen for himself the point where starvation could turn suddenly from slow suffering to the failure of the heart and total collapse of the body. He knew that it could happen quickly, and that it could kill - sometimes as fast as being run through, at the turn. And that could come even when the sufferer seemed only a little thin, let alone . . . as Maitimo was now. 

Findekáno had not wondered how Maitimo had not starved to death - at first there had been no time or space in his thought to wonder, and before he had such, the answer had been said: because their Enemy _had that power_ , in his own domain. 

Had the power to simply . . . _force_ the continuance of life, force the body to remain as if it were fed the bare meagre least that it needed, regardless of the truth. To force the union of hröa and fëa to continue beyond what should have been any point of death. 

The power to make it so, and the malice to spend power thus. He could force someone to continue, and with Maitimo he had clearly done so. 

Findekáno remembered once many years ago, when one of the other nestandor who studied in Lórellin had told how the urqui had been made. 

Had said they were made from those who had wandered too far from Cuiviénen, or who had fled from Oromë in fear, mistaking him for one of the Enemy's shadowy hunters. The nestando said those unhappy ones had been captured by the Enemy, taken to the deepest pits of Utumno and tormented there, and the Enemy had twisted them and shaped them new and turned them into the urqui that haunted Endórë. 

And Findekáno remembered that more than one listener had insisted this could not be so. That any of their kind would first rather die than become so twisted and destroyed; it did not escape his memory now that Fëanáro had been among those who insisted that much. Among the loudest of them. 

Insisting that any of their kind would seek death first, than be so used and changed. 

The nestando had given those who protested one of the looks that Naicë so often wore, and said _Melkor would not have to allow that._

Then the questions had ceased. Almost at once, in fact. It seemed no one wished to think on that very long. None wished to think too hard on what it meant when there could be no escape, not even death, no matter how much you longed for it.

Now Findekáno found himself thinking on it, whether he wished to or not. The thoughts made it hard to keep his arms from tightening ever more, holding Maitimo closer, since that could only hurt. 

Findekáno could feel the fragility of the body in his arms, skin and bones a frail and worn house for someone so desperately loved and nearly lost and tightening his grip could only hurt. 

Yet Maitimo's hand was twisted in the front of his shirt, Maitimo's face pressed against the front of his shoulder, as if the only thing his cousin could want was to be closer; and still Maitimo shook, and still it seemed as if breathing were difficult and painful for him.

So for the moment, Findekáno kissed the top of Maitimo's head, held him, and waited. 

He tried as best he could to be sure that he held Maitimo in a way that would not cause further harm; he felt uncertain he succeeded. But for now it seemed all there was to do. He was certain Maitimo could not hear him, or at least could not draw sense from what he heard; and he could by no means bring himself to even try to make Maitimo let go. Not as he was now. 

So Findekáno held him, murmuring now and then as soothing as he thought he could, and waited. 

A little out of his view, he could hear Naicë moving, doing . . . something. He knew not what, and could not summon up the will to care. But she was there, with the faint movement of someone going about tasks in a small space, the swish of cloth, the sounds of hands moving objects and objects touching one another. 

He simply could not easily derive meaning from those sounds that he could hear, beyond that she did . . . something, and that she had not left, and he did not care to make more effort. He did not _care_ much about anything in this moment beyond the one who shivered in his arms, and anything that he did not immediately make sense of, for now Findekáno ignored. 

He found himself rocking gently still, and did not stop it. Distantly he could hear other sounds of the encampment and he realized he did not know what hour of the day it was, only that the Sun was up, and he did not care much about that either. 

With the same sense of distance and near-disinterest, Findekáno did after a moment begin to look around as he waited, and now Naicë passed in and out of his view, though he paid her no more mind than before. 

It was difficult to judge the time by the light, for it that light was still seen through the haze from the mountains and so flat and without easy direction. It was day, but Findekáno could not readily judge the hour. 

He saw that someone had changed his tent, while he slept. Whoever it was, they had brought tables, several of them. There was one that was quite large, tall enough to stand and by far the widest in the space now, and it was at that one that Naicë seemed to be working; and there were others, smaller, though some tall and some short and then also things small enough that they could be table or they could be stool, and it depended only on whether you wished to put yourself on them or something else.

Findekáno's possessions had been bundled up or put away in chests and put aside to a corner where they were stacked to take up as little space on the ground as could be; in their place those baskets and chests of the kind that one most often saw in the Asiëmar had begun to fill the spaces beside the tables, the chairs, and the one low couch he could see.

Findekáno thought idly that he recognized that from Irissë's tent, recognized it as being something that one of the star-struck carpenters had made his sister only days after they had taken up this encampment with the eye to staying - thus making such an effort worthwhile. 

His sister often inspired such things. None of them had ever moved her, but she was not unkind to her admirers. 

Even this did not fill all the space in his tent. Findekáno had one of the largest, for Irissë and Turukáno both insisted, though he had little enough to cause need of such. Until now. He only came here to sleep, and so cared little for filling it with the things the others of his family made use of. 

Irissë had fussed once about the lack of comfort - but being still, being without a task to occupy his mind: that had not been _comfortable_ for some time now. Findekáno had felt no particular comfort alone and idle for . . . well, a very long time, since before the Ice, and no chair or cushion would make it any better, so why should he have a space full of things he would not use? Someone else could have them. Someone else would have far more use for them. He had a bed, good enough to sleep on; he had his weapons, his tools, his clothing, and what else did he need? 

Now it seemed there were unforeseen advantages to that, though he could hardly have imagined them before. It meant even with the need to make this tent a private asiëmar, it would not become crowded or cramped.

These were all still idle thoughts and Findekáno let them pass without holding them. 

When Irissë returned, she bore another bundle, and a full drink-skin with a silver seal. She put both down somewhere out of Findekáno's sight, and then came to pick up the featherbed off the ground and lay it back on the frame.

The noise of someone moving so close made Maitimo flinch, his whole body twisting tense - though before that Findekáno thought it would not have been possible for there to be more tension in him. He rested his cheek against the top of Maitimo's head and murmured, _peace,_ _tyenya, it is only my sister. All is well. All is well._

And after a moment some of that tightness let go again.

Some.

Irissë pulled one of the flat wooden stools closer to them. On it she set two deep bowls and two cups, one larger and one smaller. All the vessels were formed of the clay they had found here in beds near the lake, glazed the dark shades natural to the ash, which made it difficult to see the colour of any liquid they held unless it was nearly opaque. 

Findekáno recognized the faint scent of miruvórë in the the smaller cup, and the larger seemed to be water, or perhaps a weak infusion of something, but he could not see any particular shade nor place any smell. 

The bowls were both full as well, to within two fingers' span from the rim. One held something clear, or nearly clear, but Findekáno could see the faint sheen and thought it most likely to be bone-broth of some kind; the other held a thick, milky liquid, white with the faintest hint of gold and another sheen on its surface. 

"These first," Irissë said quietly, crouching carefully and pointing to the broth, then to the white liquid in turn. "Slowly - a mouthful or two every handful of minutes. Then the miruvórë; then the infusion - it has something in it to help him keep calm," she added, as Findekáno glanced at her face. "But if you try to give it to him first, he will simply be sick, and worse off than he is now. These two," she touched her fingers lightly to the rim of both bowls, sitting side by side, "are the most important." 

After the briefest hesitation, Findekáno nodded. He was not even certain what his hesitation was, save that he still felt he was being caught up in a flood and only just keeping his head above water. He thought again of the hunting kelvar in the deeps, and he thought of what it would feel like to be their prey, driven off a raft of ice by a rolling wave. 

So he could only nod, and do as his sister bid. She was the one who was wise in these matters, not he. 

"After he has finished the infusion, we will need to check his wounds for infection and any other care," Irissëwent on, "but Naicë does not think a stranger should even come close until after he has drunk the last thing, let alone try to touch him." 

And Findekáno realized Naicë would be a stranger: he himself had not known her from any of those who studied on Lórellin until several days after they had seen the ships burn across the strait. She had been with them from the first day, yes, but she had not put herself forward nor demanded attention until the first time she was needed. 

She had not been, after Alqualondë. Not by the Noldor. 

It was still difficult to think of why it should matter, what cause there could be - but right now, he supposed he could only follow where Naicë directed. He . . . did not know what else to do.

"When that is done," Irissë finished, "I have brought clothing from the Asiëmar; Naicë says you can help him dress, and then she will give him something that will remove all of the pain and let him sleep peacefully again for some time, and that this would be best." 

The garments the Asiëmar kept were meant to be easy to put on or take off, or to have someone help to do so; lacking anything else he could think to do, Findekáno nodded slightly to Irissë and she drew back out of his sight again. 

He tried to gather his thoughts, his wits. It was less easy than he might have hoped. 

It had been some time since he woke, though Findekáno could not tell how long, not precisely. By now Maitimo's breathing had eased a little: each breath was short, and sharp, but seemed less pained, without the scrape of a broken voice keening against it; he still shook, but less than before; and it seemed to Findekáno that he might hear words spoken to him. 

Hear them and understand them. 

"Maitimo," he said, quietly but loud enough to be heard. He hated that Maitimo seemed to go still, not as if the shaking eased but instead as if he froze, and so Findekáno gently smoothed his palm over Maitimo's hair and down to the curve of his neck before cradling Maitimo's head where it rested against his shoulder again. "Shhh," he breathed, "Maitinya, shhh, all is well, all is well, only - " 

He stumbled over the words for a moment, before he caught hold of his thoughts and could say, "Forgive me, tyenya, I need you to sit up for a moment." 

The sense of being frozen had lifted, but Maitimo did not move; after a heartbeat, maybe two, Findekáno shifted and took very, very careful hold on Maitimo's uninjured shoulder, guiding him to sit up enough to look at him. 

"I need you to sit up," Findekáno repeated, gently, looking for some sign of understanding and doing his best not to be tangled in dismay at how battered and thin Maitimo's face still was. "I need you to drink this - it is broth and - "

Findekáno hesitated, turning his head to look at it, and then admitted, "Something Naicë makes, I do not truly know what it is, I think it is somehow food that you drink. It is wholesome, though, it will help you -" and he tried to stop his stumbling words, and turn them into something with meaning, so that he finished with, "- you need it."

Maitimo's eyes seemed distant, and as if it took a great effort to truly look _at_ Findekáno instead of through him, let alone to make meaning of the words. After a breath or two he nodded just slightly, and Findekáno decided to take that as a sign of understanding. 

Still carefully, _more_ carefully even than before, he helped Maitimo to sit back - or, better maybe to say that he made Maitimo sit back, for though Maitimo did not resist it, Findekáno thought that if he had stopped or let go at any point, there Maitimo would have stayed.

Or fallen, had Findekáno let go before he was steady. But either way, there seemed little will of Maitimo's own in the movement, and less of his intent. He stayed where Findekáno put him; he let himself be moved. 

As Findekáno moved him, Maitimo's hand slid from the front of Findekáno's shirt to cling to his wrist with the same tight-but-weakened grasp as he had used to clutch at Findekáno's hand before. Otherwise, he was still, and while his gaze followed his own hand, it was vacant, as if his mind were far away and lost there.

Findekáno had seen such looks before, from grief or exhaustion, but not . . . so much, not like this. Not seeming so _far_ away as this, so that it felt as if the absence was texture in the air, something to be felt on the skin and not just something to be observed.

The blanket had fallen from Maitimo's shoulders as Findekáno moved him to pile uselessly on the ground; now Findekáno pulled at it with the hand Maitimo wasn't holding, covering him to the waist. 

He felt distantly conscious that Naicë might be watching, or Irissë, but the emptiness in Maitimo's eyes still here worried him, so he ignored them, for now. He did not have room in his mind for everything. Indeed he already felt like he barely had enough for . . . this. What they thought of what he did, he could not bring himself to consider. 

Now Findekáno found himself at an impasse, for he needed both hands for what would come next, yet at the same time Maitimo still clutched at his wrist and he did not wish to make Maitimo release his grip, for it seemed that would . . . imply things he did not wish to imply. 

After a moment's struggle of thought, Findekáno gently turned that wrist so that he could catch Maitimo's hand in his own, and then draw Maitimo's hand down to rest on his knee instead, in the hopes it would serve as a compromise. 

Maitimo's eyes did not change, and his gaze did not move from his own hand, but his fingers closed in the cloth under them, holding it tight - as if that might stop Findekáno from drawing away or being taken away. 

Maitimo stayed silent, except for the sound of his breathing that was still short and harsh. Every so often his eyes would close briefly in what Findekáno felt unhappily sure was pain, and he swayed a little; and though he did not fall, Findekáno thought it best not to take more time than he had to. 

Findekáno turned to carefully pull the stool closer; then he just as carefully took the bowl with the clear broth in one hand and made sure to it steady enough he did not risk dropping it. Then in turn he took Maitimo's wrist gently with the other.

"Maitimo," he repeated, a little more firm, gently squeezing his cousin's wrist and then guiding his hand up to the bowl. "I need you to drink this. A little at a time, and carefully. Please?"

For a moment, Maitimo looked at him, and it seemed as if he were trying to grasp at some understanding, searching Findekáno's face for the key that would let him understand, and failing - at least, failing to grasp more than that there was something Findekáno wished him to do, and that this meant he should take the bowl, for while he did so, he did nothing after.

Maitimo's hand still shook a little, so Findekáno did not let go and instead rested his now-free hand gently over Maitimo's to help him. He drank as one who moved while asleep, and only as Findekáno helped him. But he did drink it, neither demurring nor seeming upset by it, nor any more confused by the pause between each mouthful, the waiting, than he was with everything. 

By the time the first bowl was empty, Maitimo seemed to be swaying more than Findekáno liked, so that he paused for a moment, to move so that he could draw Maitimo to lean back against him. It became a little harder for him to help Maitimo drink, but seemed easier for Maitimo to withstand as he let his full weight settle against Findekáno's chest. 

It was an unhappy thing, how little that was, that it yet exhausted him to hold himself up. 

To Findekáno the time it took to empty bowls and cups felt agonizingly long, but he knew it could not truly be much more than an hour, for obeying Irissë's instruction that there be several moments between each mouthful meant that he had to count the moments all. 

By the end, even after the miruvórë, Maitimo was limp against Findekáno and he seemed only just awake. His breath was shallow, and he seemed to Findekáno to be more pale than before; if there seemed less agony, less outright misery . . . Findekáno still did not like this state any more than the other.

The other had been painful, but this one - the blankness and emptiness frightened him. Though when he had put the bowls and the cup aside, Maitimo's hand sought his again, and held as tight as he seemed able, pulling Findekáno's arm around himself. 

Findekáno saw what Irissë meant about whatever was in the last infusion, though: while Maitimo stayed sitting and did not fall, but a moment or two after he had drunk it his eyes had mostly closed, and his breathing seemed slower, maybe deeper. 

Maybe less fearful.

Then Naicë said, "Now help him to sit on the bed," her voice coming from just behind Findekáno's shoulder. It took a great effort to keep from startling, but Findekáno made it, for he did not wish to jar Maitimo and Maitimo did not seem to react to her voice.

Findekáno supposed that was . . . better, maybe, than flinching at the sound of Irissë moving. 

She added, "It would help if you would sit beside him, after you do." 

He turned to give the nestandë a brief, hard look, for there was some note to that, some hint of something that he could not quite catch. But she seemed busied with joining Irissë in laying out the fresh cloths and other things she might need, and did not look at him, so in the end Findekáno could only rise and draw Maitimo with him.

It took a moment, for as Maitimo first attempted it he faltered and Findekáno caught him with less care than he would have wished; he cursed himself silently, forced himself to stop and think the best way to move, before trying again and helping Maitimo to stand enough to sit in turn on the bed. 

By then Maitimo seemed caught in a drowsiness that was near and yet was not like sleep, and he listed a little, leaning against Findekáno beside him. Before Findekáno could do anything, though, Naicë said, "Let him lean against you, but move so you can hold him upright."

She stood beside the bed now, and Findekáno could see his sister behind her, worry plain on her face and in her eyes. 

"What he drank before will be some help with the pain he suffers," Naicë went on, and he looked back to her steady, even gaze, with its constant shade of thoughtful assessment. "But I need to remove the brace, and there is no way to keep that from hurting. I fear that new and sudden pain may panic him again. I will need you to help him understand that there is no harm here, and it may be difficult."

Slowly, Findekáno nodded, though he did not like this, either. But he could not see what other choice he had - he knew that wounds left with old bandages could too-easily fester, and kill, and there were more than a few that he could see could not be changed with the brace as it was.

So he could not argue that this could wait, or was not needful. In truth he suspected that if it were not needful, Naicë would not be doing it. 

At least, he hoped that was true. He could only trust her; he had no other real choice. 

Naicë's fear proved well-founded: though he did not seem aware of any of them before it, when she undid the brace and Irissë took it away, Maitimo startled, badly, eyes flying open with the beginnings of a cry. If Findekáno had not held him he might have recoiled as much as he had done earlier, and with similar effect. 

Except this time it would be worse, for there would be nothing protecting his mangled arm from what such a fall might do.

Instead, the movement faltered against Findekáno's side, and Findekáno caught Maitimo carefully. Caught him, stopped him and said his name, twice - and then, "Tyenya, _stop_ , you are safe - stop," and he caught the side of Maitimo's face with one hand, making his cousin look at him, " _tyenya_ , you are safe, stop - you need clean bandages. Look at me, melindyo, please. You are here with me and you are safe - shhh, all is well."

Looking at him, Maitimo did stop, or at least falter towards it - and that was enough, it seemed, for the words to at least be heard past the panic. At first it seemed they made no sense: Findekáno could see the shape of his name, and _bandages_ and others on Maitimo's lips, as if saying them silently again could unlock their meaning, his gaze falling and going distant again but this time also as if struggling towards understanding.

But Maitimo did stop, and try to understand, and the panic at least seemed to ease - as nothing worse happened, maybe, Findekáno thought. As that first pain did not lead in to more, nor into any . . . punishment, maybe, for attempting to escape it.

Maitimo's hand clutched at Findekáno's shoulder, for balance. 

After a moment of silence when Maitimo had not moved again, Findekáno stroked his cheek - sharp bone and hollow space, _ai_ \- with his thumb and said, "You are injured, Maitinya. Badly so, and some of your wounds risk festering. The nestandë needs to tend to them. That is all. You are wounded and the nestandë had to move your arm to tend the wounds - that is all. You are safe here." 

Maitimo raised his eyes to Findekáno's face for a moment, and then went as if to turn and look but stopped, maybe because it hurt. "The nestandë needs to tend to you, tyenya," Findekáno repeated, in case it could be heard this time. "To make certain nothing festers." 

And he hesitated, and then said quieter, " - please, melindyo, I have you back safe, I cannot bear to risk losing you now. I promise she means no harm."

It seemed then as if Maitimo went without thought to lift his maimed arm, to use the hand he no longer had - whether to reach out to Findekáno or to push him away or something else, Findekáno did not know - and then flinched, looking down to stare at his arm where it now ended, where his wrist had been.

As if only just remembering- or understanding - where the pain came from, and why.

Findekáno brushed fingers through what was left of Maitimo's hair and said, "Ai, Maitinya, I know - forgive me, melindo, I wish it were not so," and he meant it. 

He gently caught Maitimo's chin to get him to look back at him again and said, "And I know that it hurts," carefully, as if to someone with a fever, or a child, "and you do not want it touched, but all is to help heal, not to do harm, I promise."

It still seemed like a struggle for Maitimo to understand, as if he were fighting through thick mud to think, but after a moment, still looking at Findekáno's face, he nodded.

But he turned his face away from Naicë, so that he could not see what she did.

After a moment, on impulse, Findekáno drew Maitimo's head to rest against his shoulder. He rested one hand there, on the back of Maitimo's head, and held Maitimo's hand with the other. Almost as soon as he did, Maitimo slid his fingers between Findekáno's and held on as tightly as it seemed he could.

It still was so little pressure, given what it should have been. But it seemed to help. 

If measured by the cold clear march of time, it took very little for Irissë and Naicë to finish: to change each bandage and set aside blood-stained cloth for new that was once again treated with whatever ointment it was that Irissë had applied to them the night before. Perhaps a quarter of an hour; perhaps even less. 

But with everything his sister and Naicë did and every moment that passed, it became ever more clear that even half-dazed from whatever Naicë had given him, Maitimo did not want to be touched; that even when it did not seem that anything caused him pain, every instant of hand on skin was unwanted, and that although he did not do so, Maitimo desperately wished to pull away from them and make them stop.

That every moment they did not, it grew worse. 

So however short the true span of time, it felt like an eternity that grew longer with each flinch and cringe Findekáno could feel as Maitimo clung to him.

When Irissë changed the bandage on his thigh, Maitimo shuddered so violently that Findekáno nearly stopped her; he did not, but only because it seemed best to finish all of this as quickly as it could be finished. If he stopped her, it would mean she would have to begin again and it would take even longer.

So instead he only murmured what reassurances he could, and hoped that Maitimo could hear and understand them. That they meant anything.

If nothing else, Maitimo clung to Findekáno's hand and as much as he could kept his face hidden against his shoulder; Findekáno was not sure that Maitimo understood where he was, or what was happening and why, but he seemed to draw comfort from Findekáno being there and to believe that he was there, that it was him. That would have to be enough, for now.

When she had finished, Naicë gave Findekáno another cup - this one, she said, holding hasama that would relieve the pain and allow Maitimo to sleep again for some time. 

Maitimo needed more help to drink this; he was still awake but hardly seemed aware of what was around him at all, and understanding anything Findekáno said seemed by now a desperate struggle. 

Irissë had unwrapped a bundle of clothing from the Asiëmar and laid them out on the bed. The leggings were wide and loose, easy enough to help someone put on or indeed to dress someone in without their cooperation, the waist folding in to tie with a broad cloth belt. Maitimo did not seem to understand what was happening, but he did not flinch nor cringe away. 

As Findekáno carefully tied the cloth belt his hands brushed the points of Maitimo's hips, jutting against his skin. The wrongness of that still ate at him. 

Naicë took the shirt and shook her head, putting it aside and saying that it would have to wait for now - something about pressure on the skin under the brace that Findekáno did not wholly understand - but that this way, Maitimo would at least not be naked when he woke next, and that might help. 

Findekáno looked at her; at those words he felt again that there was something under what she said, something more than he understood. And at the look she gave him in return, he felt it all the more.

But before he could say anything, Naicë held up one hand. "We will speak after you are certain he is peaceful, and at rest," and although the words and the demurral ground a little across his nerves and thoughts, Findekáno let it be and turned back to his cousin, and being certain that Maitimo could rest. 

The hasama seemed to have done what Naicë said it would, for Findekáno could tell that Maitimo's pain was less in the way he moved, even as he seemed barely awake. Still, Findekáno was careful as he helped Maitimo lay back down on the clean bed, cradling his head in one hand until he could rest it fully against the pillows. Maitimo's eyes closed almost at once, body going lax against the bed. 

Naicë's voice made Findekáno look up as she said, "Itarillë will be here soon, I know; go, child, and rest." 

She spoke to Irissë, and for a moment Findekáno thought his sister might protest, though he could not think why - but then she glanced at Naicë's face, hesitated, and nodded. 

First, though, she crossed to him and kissed his brow, and bent so that he could return the kiss without having to rise; he did and also caught her hand to press it briefly in the thanks he found himself not entirely able to speak. Irissë gave him half of a smile, and then left. 

Maitimo was asleep, or very nearly so. Findekáno pulled the blanket up to cover him, smoothed one hand over his hair and brushed his cheek.

They had done the best they could, but now, in even the hazy daylight that came through the canvas, Findekáno could see the smudges that still remained of soot and dirt and smoke, and he itched to see them gone. In daylight, too, the white and undyed cloth of the wrapped bandages and the patches like those he had seen Nerwen apply were more startling - especially the one carefully wrapped at Maitimo's neck, holding the square of gauze against the wound at the side of it.

When Maitimo gave no sign of feeling Findekáno's hand brush the side of his face, and his breath had slowed to that of deep sleep, Findekáno leaned down to kiss his forehead before he pushed himself to his feet.

Naicë was standing by the nearest table, clearly waiting for him. "Where is my cousin?" he asked, without bothering to waste time wondering if she would know which one he meant.

"Artanis took the night's later watch," Naicë replied, "and then she went to see that all the other things she arranges in this encampment did not go to ruin while she was distracted." 

The nestandë gestured for him to come with her to the other side of the tent, where someone had brought chairs to put beside Irissë's couch. He followed her.

"Your father does not truly understand his great good fortune that she was as wholly seduced by the dream of Endórë as you were," Naicë went on, settling on one of the chairs almost like a moth alighting on a perch. "Had she turned back with his brother, you would all be in a far worse state. I hope she has the sense to rest at some point herself, but she is more difficult to manage even than the rest of you, as she does not simply run at her arguments head-on."

It was tempting to get diverted, to follow that thread where it went, but Findekáno pulled himself back - he had asked and she had answered that question as much as he needed her to. Others -

Others less so.

He was conscious, distantly, that he was still in the clothing Irissë had brought him the night before, creased from deep sleep, and that he was no cleaner than he had managed to make himself with the basin and cloths before he had changed. He heard Amillë in memory sigh and ask him how much authority he expected to have, in such a state, and he ignored the memory of her now as he had so often ignored her in her presence. 

"Then it is now later, Naicë," he said, quiet but firm, sitting in the chair across from her. "So tell me now what it is I do not understand."

For a moment Naicë merely looked at him, impassive and unreadable. Findekáno was struck, as he often was, by how dark her eyes were and how much weight her gaze seemed to carry, and how it often seemed that her fëa was not content to be contained within her skin, but took up more space than it should.

Since he had gained reason to think of her beyond her simply being one of the many figures sometimes in the background of life, it had more than once struck Findekáno that it would be difficult to call her _beautiful_ , if only because she did not seem to . . . care. It did not seem something that mattered to her.

Naicë was always neat, and if her face was sharp it was not unlovely, but it was hard to think in that way. It was hard not to remember, instead, every time you looked at her, that she had woken up under the rekindled stars before the first words had been spoken.

All the more so when she looked back at you as she did now, gaze steady and opaque and all the more strange and unlike one of their own kind.

Then, just as Findekáno felt his patience with her silent regard begin to break, she sighed, leaned back against the chair, and put one hand to her brow.

And as if he had been looking through a lens of glass one way, and now suddenly it inverted, with her movement everything changed, and instead Findekáno became aware of how small she was - how sharp and slender and almost fragile. Instead of remote and strange she seemed weary and ancient beside him, and all at once he felt young, and also as if he were standing on the verge of something, some chasm deep and black and unknowable.

It was unsettling, as if the ground tried to move itself under his feet as it did when Sangaroronti stirred, but without anything that another could feel. As if it was the ground of thought alone. 

Naicë let her hand fall, resting it on the collar of her clothing where it lay below her throat and toying with some embroidery there, looking up as if for wisdom from the stars that were invisible in the daylight sky and further hidden by the canvas roof above them.

"Child," she said quietly, "you were born in Aman, and for all the grief of our journey here you still know very, very little of fear, and of pain, of shame and of suffering, and what they together may do."

Her words were soft and seemed almost a sigh of regret, though Findekáno was not wholly sure what she regretted. Her gaze felt heavy again when she considered him, and he tried not to show it.

"Even those of us who woke in the darkness," she said, "and have made both journeys across the western sea, even there most know only the smallest part of what there is to know. And what greater and unhappy wisdom I have on this matter - I cannot and will not tell you how I gained it."

Her gaze remained steady and level, but then for a brief breath she seemed more like the Naicë he knew best when she added, "Believe me, the knowledge would give you no comfort and trouble you deeply, to little purpose, in all of what I am very sure must come," for there was some dark amusement behind it. 

But it was fleeting, and then she was grave and somehow brittle again.

"Ai," she said, softly, to his surprise, "where to even begin."

Then before he could answer, there was another flash of the grim, dark amusement across her face and she asked, "Do you remember, now, the mood in this host when the news came that Fëanáro was already dead, with his followers thus stymied and in no little disarray?"

Findekáno did, though he had little pleasure in the memory now. That news had come some time before the rest by several days, and for that small time he had shared as much in the satisfaction and - though it left a foul taste in his mouth now - even joy, at Curufinwë Fëanáro's failure and loss.

And Findekáno took her point, for he knew well enough that few had shared his own change of heart at the later news: that only a little while after that, Maitimo's satari and the forces that had gone with them to meet Morgoth's embassy had been destroyed and Maitimo had been taken, leaving Makalaurë to lead that host. 

Though in truth, what sway Fëanáro's second son could have over his brothers, Findekáno had a great deal of doubt.

So yes, he remembered. But he did not answer aloud. He doubted the nestandë needed him to.

"An easy thing, is it not," Naicë said, "to take joy in the suffering and misfortune of another? Tchh - " she held up a hand, as he stirred, though he was not even sure what protest he was about to make, for he had not thought so far, only that the words stung anew and more than he could take just now without some reaction. But he did stop, at the motion. 

Naicë shook her head a little. "Peace, Findekáno - I say this not to remonstrate; I say it to help you understand. Because it _is_ easy, child; you have felt it. And so now understand: it is not much more difficult to move from there to joy in _causing_ the suffering and misfortune of another, if you hate them enough."

After a moment of silence, one that Naicë clearly left for him to think in, Findekáno nodded, if a little reluctantly. He did not . . . it was not comfortable to think of how easy that slide could be. And he thought Naicë saw something of it in his face, because a smile that held little amusement or joy touched hers.

"It is not comfortable, no," she said, as if she could see his thought. And maybe she could. "Many truths are not comfortable. And it is the nature of our Enemies - and I say _enemies_ , Findekáno, because Morgoth is not alone. He is lord over them all, and our greatest threat and fear, but he is _not_ alone, and there are many Maia who serve him by their choice, not to mention the slaves he has made himself. And many of those Maia are strong, and all of them find their greatest pleasure in the suffering of others." 

She sighed. "Even those who serve him out of fear and in hatred before long are twisted enough to turn that outwards again, so that they can vent their suffering in the pain of those weaker than they. But beyond them are those who need no enslavement to be thus - who flocked to his banner of their own will, and many of them gladly."

Findekáno had known of their Enemy's servants before, but the way she spoke of the matter was unfamiliar. Before now, Findekáno had heard of Morgoth corrupting some among the Maia, the Valaraukar chief among them. But he had not heard either of enslavement nor yet anyone speak of it as if it was something they had chosen.

And that . . .was strange, in itself. Findekáno saw that as soon as the thoughts shaped themselves. That at the same time, _corruption_ was always spoken of as if it were something Morgoth had done to them, a change brought from the outside, and yet still their service to him became proof of their own evil, their own doing. He had never made note of that before; it had never seemed a matter that concerned him. 

Now, it concerned him. 

"I do not know if Morgoth taught them that," Naicë went on, and though it echoed the matter of his surprise, Findekáno did not think at this moment she was closely attentive to him, but instead was following her own thoughts "or if it is because they were always thus that they flocked to him."

She seemed to stare into the distance for a moment as she spoke. "I know what some of the other Maiar believed, and a few of the Valar that have spoken of it where I have heard them - that he was the origin of all the evils, and that each who strayed did so because of his corruption of their hearts . . . but I have often wondered if it is simply because they do not wish to think that the same horror could arise more than once, of its own accord."

The words made Findekáno stare at her, blinking, but she did not seem to attend just then.

"If it all comes from Morgoth," she said, nearly a murmur, "if all who came after were corrupted by him, maybe it is easier than knowing that anyone can follow that road if they are not careful, with no need for any corrupter or teacher. Before, I thought one way on that score but now - "

Then she shook her head, before Findekáno could speak, and said, "Your patience - I . . . do not relish what I should tell you, and I am therefore easily diverted from my purpose, but this . . . matters little right now."

Findekáno waved away the apology, for he could not blame her - his own mind wished somewhat more to follow those other paths, in truth, than to return to the unknown that frightened him. But he needed it not to. He reminded himself of that as well: he needed to know what she had meant before. Even if no part of him truly wished it.

Naicë sighed. 

"What matters to your understanding," she said, "is this: our Enemy takes joy and pleasure in causing suffering, and so do his servants. I am sure you have heard that before, and yet I doubt you understood as well as you will need to. For when it is said, it is said as if this were some hunger unknowable to anything but the most corrupt - yet you yourself have felt its close cousin, and seen closer still. And there are yet more innocent reflections: how many people have won a game or a contest of strength or wit or skill with someone else, particularly someone they do not like, and not felt their victory all the sweeter for the disappointment of their rival?" 

Now her eyes had the wryness, the edged humour Findekáno most often thought of when he thought of Naicë. And it was no more comfortable now that he saw what might be so amusing than it was when he was adrift.

"And yes: there is a great difference," the nestandë said. "There is a very, very great difference between such things and the cruelty of our Enemy. And yet the difference is one of degree, and not of kind, and we are prey to growing far closer in degree than we like to think, all the more so as we refuse to comprehend it, even as we act on it." 

Findekáno nodded, slowly. He thought of Fëanáro, at Alqualondë, and at Tirion. "The satisfaction is the same," he said, slowly. "It is just . . . far greater, for them."

"And eventually to the exclusion of all others," Naicë agreed. "And without any taint from grief or pity for those who suffer, or of guilt or shame for causing that suffering. It is that satisfaction, that pleasure and joy, written large and without any diminishment, and so with that understanding in hand, I will repeat: our Enemy takes his greatest joy and his pleasure in causing suffering - and so do his servants."

She grimaced, looking away for a moment as if through the distance as she went on, "Indeed some of them even more than he, for he wishes dominion above all things and cruelty is a diversion - a game, an amusement that he may abandon when something more important strikes him, for his greatest satisfaction is in his own victory. But for others, cruelty is the chief delight, and what power they seek is above all that they may better enjoy it: their victory's greatest purpose is to grant them the satisfaction of cruelty and the opportunity of more. That is in part why they are happiest to serve."

Then Naicë shook off the distance. "Morgoth's chief captain is one of these, and he has a very great power - greater than any other Maia I know of, except perhaps a handful – and even there, only perhaps. It is not," she added wryly, "as if one may ask such a question and have it answered."

"You speak as if you have seen that power, and that cruelty," Findekáno said, quietly, when she paused - for it was true, and it seemed nearly as if he were lying, to leave it unspoken.

"I have," she replied, "though _how_ is one of those things that I will not explain, for promises I have made." And Findekáno inclined his head slightly to acknowledge that, and did not ask. 

She said, "I know you have heard the name _Sauron_ before - but I doubt you know much of him, beyond knowing who he serves."

Findekáno made a gesture of acknowledgement: it was a name that came close to any tale of their Enemy, often with the teller gravely observing that the Valar had not found this _Sauron_ when they broke open Utumno, and none now knew where he might be in all of Endórë. That for one once in service to Aulë there were many deep places in Arda he could hide. 

As such, it would seem easy enough to think he would return to his master now his master had returned. 

"He has made a deep study of suffering and torment," said Naicë, and that bleak amusement once again touched her face when she went on, "and as I say those words you will think of beatings, of fists and claws and knives and clubs and perhaps if you have spent more time than most thinking of these things - and I doubt you have, before now - you will think of lashes and brands, and you are not wrong, and yet - "

She sighed again. "And yet, you could only see so little of the vast and hideous wisdom he has, in how the mind and spirit turn, and how the body can be used to reach them, and then to how there may be no need - how to turn the mind and heart and soul against themselves and tear themselves to pieces."

Naicë's gaze seemed heavy again against Findekáno's skin, his eyes, as she went on, "Just now you felt unease and discomfort that I reminded you of a time when you took joy in the grief of others - for I have no doubt that every one of his sons _grieved_ at the death of Fëanáro, whatever other tangled things they might have thought, and I expect there were many - and I doubt you found the moment pleasant." 

The note in her voice made it clear she expected she was greatly understating the case. Findekáno nodded. Indeed the feeling of it lingered far more than he wanted it to - 

As Naicë looked at him, it seemed almost as if a faint, complex smile touched her face without changing its expression, and she said, "Indeed, because in general I think well of you on such accounts, I have little doubt you were ashamed, even as I told you that I did not speak of the matter to remonstrate." 

"I would tell a lie if I did not admit to that," Findekáno said, reluctantly, and now the smile took shape, briefly, but it was thin and sad. 

"Shame is its own torment," Naicë said, simply. "And its depth is near infinite. At best we can hope it guides us away from evil deeds, but ai, Nolofinwion, I often think it is a misguided guard, and little more than a sickness of its own. Shame will eat away the mind and the spirit as acid eats away skin and flesh, or worse. It curdles in the core of us, and twists askew, so that shame itself drives us further into what has made us ashamed. It is a poison," she concluded. "And it is easily administered and difficult beyond measure to counter." 

Findekáno stared openly at her, for these were not things he had heard before, and she only held his gaze. 

"Sauron and his master both know how to use it," she said, "to turn it into a tool and a weapon - and a weapon that, best of all, their victims will use on themselves, tearing apart their own minds and hearts with it. It is a gift to all such as our Enemies are, so that with each wound they inflict, it takes but a little twist of skill, and they can make a victim swallow all the shame for suffering that wound, and drive themselves further in torment, without the torturer needing to lift a finger."

She sighed once more, the noise soft, and briefly touched her fingers to her brow again before she said, "And truly, child, I tell you that it is not difficult: with simple pain it is easy enough to drive a victim to scream or plead, however strong, however brave he thinks himself before that moment, and having driven the victim to that point it is easier still to make that victim _ashamed_ of screaming and of pleading - ashamed of weakness, ashamed of suffering, ashamed to be defeated and in the power of another, no matter what the reason. A torturer can break every bone in their victim's body and then make the victim _ashamed_ that they were able to do it." 

Her eyes were distant again, and her gaze dark this time, as she finished, "And so with each torment you inflict, you drive your victim to carry on your work for you after you have left them, to further your own purpose by loathing and despising _themselves_ for the agony _you_ inflicted. It is a neat trick, and it works very, very well."

Findekáno stared at her, unable to find a single word to say - simply unable. Unable even to find much to think, for he could see the truth in what she said, see the path and the mechanism she described, and only find horror in response. And it was a deep horror, and one that shook him no little amount to see its patterns play out, leaving him silent. 

Naicë shrugged. "It does not end there," she said, "indeed that is child's play, and ai, child of Finwë's child, what you understand now to be pain is far from the only manner of torment. Indeed," and here there seemed to be a bitter twist of amusement that was more bitter than bright, "often moments of ease or relief - or things that should be relief, or used to be - these are even better tools, for such as they. If you can taint everything, you can ensure there is no relief and no respite, and even escape becomes merely another font of self-loathing and shame."

It was hard to understand what lay written on her face then, the distant look, before it faded and her gaze sharpened again, directed itself at him.

"With all of that in your mind now, Nolofinwion, understand me when I say: Morgoth _hated_ Fëanáro," she said, flatly. "Hates him still, I would guess, even though he is dead, and more than you can understand, I think. Finwë died for that hate. Maybe even Laurelin and Telperion died for it. He and Morgoth are of a kind, you see."

She paused and shook her head. "And I do not mean in malice, however quickly that thought may have come to you, for Aulë is also likewise; I mean that it is in their nature to shape and to create, to remake, and to seek the wisdom needed to do so. It may be in all our natures, those of us who became _Noldor_ , instead of something else, but it above all was in Finwë's eldest son.

"They are of a kind, and yet Fëanáro's work surpassed our Enemy's and then Fëanáro disdained and dismissed him - and that humiliation was beyond what Morgoth could tolerate. It is after all one thing to be beaten by the massed power of your own kind," Naicë said, bleak smile once more on her face like a cloud flitting across the moon. "Even that he did not bear willingly, but still it is one thing, when they are many and you are one, their servants a multitude more than yours. It is very much another to have this fragile creature, whose whole life is but a blink in your own eye - to have this creature who has outdone you then both eclipse you _and_ throw his despite in your teeth, all with no sign of fear."

Findekáno found it difficult to meet her gaze for a moment. 

He had never had much love for his father's half-brother, and indeed had loved Fëanáro less each moment that he had loved Maitimo more, and more fully came to understand Fëanáro's nature. Indeed, it had bewildered him badly that most others could not, not even his father or his father's brother, who so often were the targets of their half-brother's spite. They could not see it, and it . . . . baffled Findekáno, that they could not. 

That they could not understand how deep Fëanáro's selfishness ran, how intently his mind turned in on itself with all others serving at most as settings, to be bent and unbent and changed as needed to show his work and wishes to their best face.

Even those he supposedly loved. Especially those he supposedly loved.

That they could not see that all that mattered to him was his own wishes, his own comforts, his own works; that even his much-vaunted love for his own father showed that same quality, that same nature, in how much more it mattered that all of Finwë's thoughts were tied around him than whether Finwë was happy or grieved. 

That Fëanáro's so-called love for his own sons was worse, and was born above all other things of how well they bowed to his wishes, and how well they reflected back to him those parts of himself he wished to see. And only those parts. 

But no one saw it, not then, not even now when there were still many who hated him, and that made it worse, and had made it all the worse. No, Findekáno had never had much love for Maitimo's father. He had loved any pebbles he found caught in his boots the more. So it was not that he could not imagine such hatred. It would not be difficult to _feel_ such hatred, if he had the feeling to waste on it. 

But for such a reason, such trivial, meaningless, unimportant things - there, Findekáno found it difficult to grasp. Though in truth he was not sure if he should be more relieved that it remained beyond him, or troubled that he could go so far himself in understanding.

"So I say: Morgoth hates Curufinwë Fëanáro," Naicë repeated more quietly in the silence. "More than you hate him, child, indeed more than you or your father or even your brother could grasp towards at the furthest point of your anger, our Enemy _hates_ Finwë's eldest son. And then he had Fëanáro's own son in his hands. Fëanáro's _eldest_ son. His heir, and the first image of himself Fëanáro brought into the world; his first creation."

Findekáno could not help himself, could not stop the words from coming sharp: " _He_ did not - "

"I know, Findekáno," Naicë said, raising her voice above his, both silencing him and yet surprising him with its gentleness. "And you know that I do not speak of truth here. I speak of how our Enemy would see things, and what it would mean to him. And you know that I speak aright."

His jaw was too tight now to answer her with words, but Findekáno acknowledged that. She did; he did know that. He hated that it was so, but she was right. 

It would not _matter_ to their Enemy that even in the basest sense of _making_ , Maitimo was as much his mother's as his father's, and indeed often far more so to anyone who had eyes to see; and it would no matter that before either of theirs he was _himself_ , whole, and not simply two others pasted together. Not a _thing_ to be made. 

It would not matter that the twist of Fëanáro's paternal affection into ownership was itself distorted and diseased, for all so few seemed to see that.

They would see the world the same way. And Findekáno understood that.

"I know," he said, eventually, when he could, for she seemed to be waiting for it. Seemed to require his acknowledgement before she would continue. He had to look away from her. 

"That Nelyafinwë even bears a shape you recognize now can only be because Morgoth had not decided yet how best to use him to hurt his brothers," Naicë said, quietly. "Or that he had, and was awaiting his moment, but that purpose itself needed his brothers to know him, to recognize him, and so he could yet not be twisted beyond that horizon. That Morgoth put him wherever in the Kindler's name you found him, instead of keeping him close, I can only think must have been because there was little more his body could endure without death or change past knowing and even there - "

She lifted one hand and then let it fall, a little helplessly. " _Ai_. Even there, I promise you, neither Morgoth nor Sauron need touch the _body_ to make their victim suffer. Not in their own stronghold. Not having so much time to do their work."

Naicë looked away, then, back to where Maitimo lay, still asleep. "And Sauron is a master of shadows," she said, her voice sad. "Of deception - of the mind and its illusions. He is a liar beyond peer, and the shape he takes is the shape that suits his purpose. He can draw thoughts from the mind, thoughts and memories, and spin lies back in until his victim cannot tell which is which.

Now Naicë looked back to him, and once again he found it hard to meet her gaze. 

"You wonder why he would shrink from you, Findekáno?" she asked, and he knew the pity in her eyes was for _him_ , and it was the pity of someone very old who knew things she wished she did not have to tell the young. "I _greatly_ doubt that this was the first time he has seen your face since his capture, nor woken to find you by his side."

Naicë's words sank into Findekáno's thoughts - but slowly, as if his thoughts resisted it, as if they did not wish to so much as record them, much less understand their meaning. Yet the meaning came over him in spite of this, painting the pictures that came with understanding across his mind and his mind's eye. 

It - 

\- hurt. 

It felt as if someone had struck him, and as if some great band wrapped itself around his lungs, his gut, and twisted hard. He looked at his hands and saw that they had closed tightly, but they felt far away, as if they belonged to someone else and he watched from the outside. His words felt the same as he heard himself say, "You think that he - " and then stopped, because he could not say it. 

His mouth would not make the words; his throat would not release them. He felt sick. 

"I think Fëanáro's eldest son would be a favoured plaything, as long as they thought he would survive it," Naicë said, and her voice was not harsh and yet the words hurt as if they were knives. "And I would be greatly surprised if Sauron did not make use of any guise he thought would make torment more cruel, one after the other and over and over - father, brother . . . ." 

She opened one hand as she trailed off for a breath, but then finished, "Friend; lover. And yours? Ai, ai - how much better that shape would be. How much better would it be, to his mind, to use grief and loss and regret on top of all the obscenity he already had to use; how much better, too, if guilt and shame told Neylafinwë that he deserved everything done to him, for leaving you behind, likely to die, and the very shape drove home that thought? Ai, again: I greatly doubt this was the first time he has seen your face since his capture, child, and he would have learned what that meant." 

And every word of it hurt. 

It felt like dripping fire into his head. It felt like acid eating into his skull. Every word, every shape of every idea the words gave voice to, every one felt like its own blow, its own flare agony, its own drop of poison, perverting the universe by existing. 

Findekáno found that he had pushed himself out of the chair, to stand, to step away and then . . . .to stop, for there was nowhere to go. An urge to go, and yet nothing to fly from, for it was not as if he could leave knowledge behind him - an urge to strike at something and yet nothing to hit. 

There was an ache in his chest and foul taste in his mouth; he felt sick, the thoughts sickened him, and even still he could feel that he could not . . . wholly grasp all that she had said, that she had meant. 

That there were shapes of thought and understanding that even now he shied away from, did not wish to think, and yet - 

_Yet_. 

Breathing felt difficult, and speaking more so, but after a moment he managed, "He did not - " and then stopped. Forced thoughts into shapes that he could speak, without sounding like a babbling child. Forced them into a shape that would tell him what he needed to know, now. Needed more than anything else. 

"He did know, in the end," he said, not turning to look at her. "That I am . . . myself. That he is here. He knew." 

It felt almost as if he were pleading with her and he supposed in some ways that was so, and yet he could not even take the chance of making it a question. As if by believing that it were possible to be otherwise, he might make it so. But even as he said each word he knew he desperately wished for her to say he was right, and did not know what he could do if she did not. 

If he was wrong, if everything that had just happened, that memory had scrambled to recall from just moments passed - if that did not mean Maitimo still _knew_ him, knew _him_ , and everything that meant - 

He needed to be right. He needed that to be true. 

"Or at least, that he is no longer in Angamando," Naicë said, but with the shape of agreement, and abruptly Findekáno could breathe again, though it made him light-headed. "Yes. And that is better than I feared." 

Now Findekáno did turn back, though he did not sit; he stayed on his feet, hand resting on the back of the chair. It felt . . . solid under his hand, real; he could feel the wood and the shaping of the blade that carved it, the faintest shapes of the mind that had held that blade, and that was . . . better. Maybe. 

And as it no longer felt as if the world were turned treacherous and unstable under his feet, he belatedly understood the last words the nestandë had said, heard them truly and understood them.

When he looked at her in query, Naicë said, "I had feared that the counterfeits would be closer to perfect." Her gaze was steady, and though she had said she would not tell him, would give him no answer, Findekáno wanted to ask how she could speak of these things with such calm, such composure. But he did not. 

It would only waste time, and it would put greater strain on his patience to be denied than he thought he could withstand in this moment, so he did not. 

"I feared," Naicë went on, "that it would be far more difficult, _take_ far more to allow him to trust that you are real, that his senses can be trusted. I feared it would be a difficulty we could not avoid, because I also felt very certain that anyone else would yet be worse - that I would be worse, most of all. And yet still I feared that one so powerful among the Maia might have a power to deceive that was great enough to fool completely, even in such a case as this."

She exhaled, too measured for a sigh but with the same sense of letting go of something with her breath. Then she said, "I am grateful that seems not to be - I advise you to be so as well. Sauron might wear your shape and use your voice, but it seems he could not counterfeit whatever Nelyafinwë sees in your eyes or feels in your touch, and that should be a great relief and one to hold on to, for more reasons than one." 

She was likely right, at that, but Findekáno felt it difficult to grasp _relief_ just now, and _gratitude_ seemed far beyond him indeed. For a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to think better, faster than it felt that he could - for it felt like he waded through snow, pulling lead weights behind him. 

Eventually he began, "You said - when he wakes again - " and then trailed off again.

It was hard to frame the question. It was hard to frame the _thought_.

"Sleep can confuse everything," the nestandë replied. "And who knows what he will dream? It may take many more than one time waking for him to believe that he is free, yes - that it is the dreams of captivity continuing that are false, rather than the memories of rescue and safety. He may have to discover the truth anew each time he wakes, at least for a while." 

Findekáno made himself nod. He understood, and there was sense to it. He simply hated that it would be so. But that hatred meant nothing in particular. There were many things that he hated that remained true. 

That had been the case for a very long time now. 

Naicë added, "Though even if it is so, most likely it will take less and less time to convince him, for each time he will have the memory of each time before. And as his body recovers, he will have the strength to stay awake longer, and that will help. This is a beginning, and likely the worst anything will be: but for the drink you gave him, I doubt he would be in much less pain then he has been for a long time, and that will change as healing comes. And that will help."

There was a moment of silence filled with Findekáno struggling with his thoughts before she said, "I will give you one piece of counsel, now."

He raised his head to look at her, startled - and now the strangely knowing, resigned look she normally wore was back, and Findekáno found that oddly comforting.

Comforting too, the strange sense of amusement when she said, "I advise that you go out and find your father elsewhere to speak to him, _before_ he tempts his granddaughter's distress to find you out in here. And I advise you to do it soon enough that you do not need to worry that Nelyafinwë will wake while you are gone."

"That is . . . probably wise, yes," Findekáno made himself say, though he was unsure if he more wished to laugh or to throw something. 

Perhaps both.

But she was right: he did not want his father here, he did not want Atar to come anywhere _near_ this place. He had not wanted that _before_ ; now, with what Naicë had told him, he wanted it less. Nor did he wish Maitimo to wake if he were elsewhere. The two truths hammered out a somewhat urgent path. 

"I will stay, and Itarillë will come soon," Naicë told him. "And I can assure you he will not wake, for now."

It would not be as if he would be difficult to find, if she were wrong, Findekáno supposed. It was not as if his father's movements could ever be secret. Likely he should bathe or at least change once more before going, but he could not bring himself to care. 

In the end he watched for a moment to be certain that Maitimo slept, bowed slightly to the nestandë and left. 

_ii._

Naicë waited until the boy had gone before she exhaled, deeply, and let the release of breath draw her back into the chair. She rested her elbow on its arm and her face in her hand, closing her eyes against the world that she could not leave. 

They were, all of them, so very young. Even those whose age different little from her own in stretch of time lived, even some of those who were nearly the same time in Arda as she.

Even they.

Some of it arose from the things they could not know, the secrets learned only in Estë's service and sworn to remain a secret, not to be spoken of to even others among the Valar themselves, save Lórien, who knew all secrets of the dreaming mind, and Nienna, who knew all that Arda could hold of grief and loss.

Naicë remembered one of her fellows had asked, _and not Mandos_? and Estë shook her head, though she did not explain.

Naicë did not know if it was that the others could not know, or if it was simply not meet for they of the Eldar to speak with them of it; if there were other secrets wound around that she and her fellows could not know, or understand, but that in order to speak with them of what they already knew, the other Valar would have to reveal.

She was content enough not to know. She had found knowing the secrets she did grew to be enough, and more than enough. There might be more to learn, certainly had to be more to learn - but there was, Naicë was sure, not much more space in her to learn it before she, too, could never stop weeping.

And she was not a Valier, and that could not become her nature and purpose within the world. It would only imprison her in her own grief and make her useless.

Yet now Naicë suspected she would learn at least that much more. Indeed: she learned already, and it reminded her why she had chosen her epessë without care for how much it disconcerted others, and set off the other names that had come before.

For it was one thing to know that one might need to wound one heart a little to keep it from destroying another, or doing the same to a soul that was as frail as the thinnest ice; it was very much another thing to have to _do_ it. To watch the stricken look on the face of the one you wounded. 

And it would not, she foresaw, be the last time she had to. Endórë seemed more than willing to offer up grief.

After a moment she rose and poured water for herself. She drank it, and then bathed her face and hands, and went to sit on the side of Neylafinwë's bed.

The hasama she had bid Findekáno give him was, in truth, enough to ensure sleep for several hours at least. Yet that was not the only reason for the depth of that sleep. Naicë recognized here the shape of a mind and soul that fled wakefulness as fast as it could, as far as it could, clutching at the refuge of senselessness and darkness because it had learned that awareness could be only misery and pain, and only nothingness of the mind too deep even for dreams could give any release.

Little wonder Findekáno worried his cousin would choose death. She suspected he had plead for it desperately enough, wherever Findekáno found him.

She doubted he would choose it now, if for no other reason than Findekáno so clearly and so desperately wished him to live; but she had to admit that without that, she would nowhere near so sure.

Naicë had come across Nerdanel in Estë's gardens, before leaving Valimar to take to Tirion and the departure of the host. She had been deep in the gardens, sitting on the grass beside Serindë's abandoned hröa where it lay, seemingly ever-sleeping.

 _They will go all of them with their father,_ Nerdanel had said, staring at her husband's mother's body, voice empty and flat, _and I will lose them, and when they die they will not be given back to me before this world ends. I can see a river of blood laid out before them. And as I sit here I wish she had never birthed him. There is nothing in the world that is worth the grief he will bring and leave and has already made. The only things of worth he ever helped to make were my children and he has damned them all to ruin and not one of them will ever come back to me. I wish she had never birthed him._

Naicë had found nothing to say to her. She did not think anyone else could have found anything either.

Wounds of the body were often so much easier.

Nelyafinwë did not show much of his mother or her line, save for the colour of his now-short hair: his shape came nearly all through his father, the figures of Finwë and Serindë mingled into a great beauty, even with the marks of suffering and starvation still written all over him. 

Yet Naicë could feel where his fëa was very much like his mother, and perhaps the saddest part of all this was that she thought that would help him very, very little.

Might well make everything that was to come all the more painful for him, having already done so for many years before.

She leaned over to lay one hand on his brow, and felt where sleep might fight its way to the shallows, to dreams, before collapsing again into the darkness. For now, she put forth some effort to ease him deeper in to quietness, instead. She could see the shape of the dreams that were like a kind of open wound, and if those dreams could not be avoided forever, they could get no worse while they waited.

There was nothing left to be _worse_. Naicë could see their shape, could taste them, and they were as poisonous as any she had known before. 

So they could simply wait, at least until she was not alone here, and so there would be no risk that they would fight their way free of even her craft and skill, and wake him to find a stranger at his bedside - a stranger who might for a moment feel more like one of the Maiar than his own kind. Even for a moment.

When she had left Valinórë, Naicë had known, in a distant way, that she would not return alive, nor see the end of wherever this madness of Fëanáro's left the Exiles. It had felt strange, then, that foreknowing: like looking into a mirror and seeing a stranger instead of yourself, or even seeing nothing there at all. She had not even wondered then, about how it might come to pass. She still did not wonder. Death would come when it did. She had no doubt it would come in the course of the duty she had chosen; given that, finer details mattered little. 

She had wondered and did still, a little, what fate might be offered when she did, for the sake of the reasons she left. But now she also wondered if she might find herself making Serindë's choice, and staying hidden in the peace of the Halls, too spent to face any more of the world-that-was and too grieved to want to. It seemed more likely now than it ever had before.

In Lórellin she had been a student, a servant, a handmaid; and whatever lay before her she had felt Estë with her, and the wisdom of the other Ainur around her, and had known herself but a small part of a great and powerful whole.

Now there was only herself, and those who knew even less, and she knew without needing any foresight or great wisdom that this would be far, far from the last soul so wrecked that she saw; and likely those to come would not have the likes of Nolofinwë's son so deeply wound about them, so determined to show them the way back.

Naicë withdrew her hand from her nautamo and covered her own face again. She breathed deeply for a moment and then rose, to find some task that would let her compose herself before Itarillë arrived in truth.

_iii._

Even despite the lasting haze, the Sun was bright enough that when he stepped out into it, Findekáno had to blink briefly, even though it had not really been dim under the canvas. 

Over the night before, someone had added an entryway to his tent. He had not bothered before, but now there was the canvas doorway and a small space beyond it before the curtain of heavy gauze, all meant to keep the smoke out as much as could be. It did help; even as he stepped out Findekáno could taste the heavier grit of ash and smoke in the air. 

Yet it was still bright. 

Pausing to let his eyes adjust to the light perhaps gave him a moment to reorient himself as well; crossing that threshold suddenly felt a little like walking between worlds, and worlds that did not have a great deal to do with one another. And for the moment, too, this world, the one out here - it felt disorienting and bewildering, and it also contained his father, and his brother, and he did not know how to deal with either of them.

Or even what dealing with them might entail.

It also contained his sister, and his cousins, and for that matter all the rest of their people, but that was different; Findekáno knew where his sister stood now, and he knew where Nerwen stood, and where Nerwen stood her brothers . . . would at least have decided it was not worth arguing or fighting to stand elsewhere. With their aid, he could sway all others that he might need to.

As long as he did not have to do so _through_ his brother, much less his father. And that - that he did not know if he might have to do.

Findekáno had known what might come after when he set out, and the truth was still now what it had been then: whatever came, he _would_ meet it. For that matter, he already had better fortune than he thought he might - he had not known, when he left, that Nerwen would do as she had done, had not truly anticipated that she would, and certainly had not felt able to ask even on the strength of his arguments about the safety of all, which he knew she agreed with.

He certainly had not expected his brother's daughter to do as she had. That much itself had been a gift. All of it. And so in that way, at least, events had unfolded better than he had feared. 

Yet still; yet still.

When he thought on it much later, Findekáno considered it was possible that even in the relatively small space to cross between his own tent and his father's, there had been other people. It was even likely. It was not as if the spaces around the royal tents were ever truly empty, as messengers and aranduri and those who were summoned to speak with someone in his family or sought them out of their own accord went here and there, as the camp-guards paced through their watch and his father's guards lurked ready to follow him. 

There were, in all honesty, very likely to have been a number of people there.

Findekáno did not remember them, but it was wholly possible that they even made efforts to avoid him as he crossed without paying mind to the paths. Or perhaps called out to him, or began attempts to intercept him that died before they actually reached him. 

It was also wholly possible that, had Thorondor returned and dove to catch him up and carry him away, Findekáno might not have noticed until his feet no longer made contact with the ground.

His thoughts were far too full of . . . everything . . . to notice much else - full of turmoil, and darkness, and the unknown. Not least among them was that he did not _know_ his father's state of mind on the issue at hand, and that was _not_ how Findekáno preferred to enter _any_ argument with his father.

Or discussion. Or whatever it would turn out to be - but he anticipated argument, if not dispute.

As well, now was _not_ the time he wished his memory recall a moment, so many years ago now, of explaining to Maitimo that it was best to know precisely how Findekáno's father felt about anything - including the world in general - before broaching any subject with him, for how it allowed you to prepare and choose which angle to take and how to pin him in place to resolve it, rather than allowing him to employ one of the many tricks Atar was good at for avoiding the direct contest and leaving you unbalanced enough to let him win.

Findekáno did not wish to remember the fond but oddly bemused look Maitimo had given him. As if the idea that it might matter was in and of itself strange and alien to him; as if the _question_ of winning, of convincing, did not apply.

This was not a good moment to need to find space to remember that, and so of course it was the moment that the memory came, intense and complete. It meant for a moment he had to pause, and turn himself to pushing it away, before he could go on. 

When Findekáno approached the tent, it came as a strange relief that both of the guards at the main tent had known him since he was a child. Another time, that itself might have counted as an annoyance; right now, it just meant there was very little use in dissembling in any way, or attempting to maintain any air of reserve, as that arrow was well and truly sped. 

The impossibility of it came - at least today - as a sense of liberation from the need to make the attempt.

Granted that to _guard_ in Tirion had been a greatly different thing - had been a matter of making certain some of the more forceful of their people had not, for example, actually come to press Atar on a decision he had made while he was bathing, or ask for his judgement while he was resting. Not until the very end had there been any sense of danger, of violence attached to such a duty where the worst that might arise was some angry shouting from someone denied access to their aran or aranon that they thought was theirs by right. 

But still: even as the duty shifted, most of those who held it remained. And so those who stood outside his father's tent were those Findekáno had known since childhood. 

Thus Findekáno did not bother even to feign that he was anything other than horribly weary, deeply troubled, and likely about to start a fight as he asked, "Is my brother in there?" without any apprehension that they would take the question to mean more than it did.

Being in service to the family that long meant that both of these guards had seen his brother and himself standing nose to nose shouting at one another more than once, and also meant that they would have some confidence in their ability to carry on without bloodshed in spite of being furious with one another.

Because one of the guards had been one of his father's guard's so long his _name_ was Tirindo and no one - save perhaps his wife - could recall any other, Findekáno also took no offense at the slight sense of amusement that came with the answer the man gave: after all, if one had been following their family for that long and had not found a way to face everything that came with it with some kind of light heart, one would have to jump off a cliff somewhere.

"No, aranonya," he said, "your brother departed for the lake some - " and here he glanced thoughtfully at faint brighter spot in the haze that was the Sun, "six hours ago. I do not believe he has been seen since."

Findekáno suppressed a grimace. "And if he left alone I suspect Findaráto left a short time later, going in an entirely different direction," he said, mostly to himself. Tirindo gave him a look that very nearly convinced him it was truly grave. It came very close.

"A perceptive suspicion, aranonya," he said, and his comrade, who did not have quite so perfect a control over his expression and so seemed to be choosing to remain silent, held the canvas aside.

Atar's tents were more akin to a complex of canvas rooms. They were arranged in a lambë-shape, so that the space in the curve could be covered if need be to provide shelter, thus add further space for the leaders in the encampment to gather should something urgent arise. For now, though, that curve was open and empty of all but those guards who were at rest, and only the joined tents of the curve were enclosed. 

The first of them was empty, and Findekáno supposed he should be grateful he had chosen a moment when it seemed none of their people were waiting for his father's attention. It would not have given him much pause had it not been so, but it remained perhaps a blessing that it was. 

The second tented-chamber contained at least three of Atar's aranduri and a handful of their asyar, all of whom looked up from what they were doing when he stepped through into the tent. 

He did not slow. Although one of the asyari rose, someone else caught his arm and made him sit down again; Findekáno did not bother to say anything, nor wait for one of them to offer to announce him.

He doubted greatly that his father could be unaware of who was about to step in through the door.

He was not. By the time Findekáno let go the canvas, his father was already gesturing for the woman he had been speaking with to rise, as if he was finishing telling her that they would have to speak later. 

Findekáno thought he recognized her as one of Nerwen's, but he could not think of her name - and she seemed happy enough to take the chance to flee, curtseying briefly before stepping past him and slipping out between the curtains of untied canvas.

When she had gone, Findekáno's father regarded him and said, "Mára rë, Horëavó," in a voice full of slightly rueful resignation, using Findekáno's amilessë as he only ever did when he felt it particularly suited.

Atar had always been somewhat dismayed at the amilessë his wife had chosen; Amillë had always been emphatic that they suited perfectly, and that every one of her foremothers had named their children without restraint, and so Atar had abandoned the field of dispute. But he still only used them when he was, in effect, ceding their mother that field yet again and in some way admitting that she was right.

Given the nature of the names, when their father used the names _with them_ it was generally an indirect way of asking them if they wished to embody the qualities their mother had ascribed to them. 

Just now, this was both possibly apt, and deeply unwelcome.

Keeping his teeth closed on the snapped response that came at first to his tongue, Findekáno restrained himself to saying only, "Would it be better if I told you I had taken more than a month to plan?" and tried to keep as much edge as he could out of his voice. He was unsure how well he succeeded.

But it was true. He had. And if restraining his temper was difficult, meeting his father's gaze without hesitation was not - the only trial became keeping his own from becoming a glare immediately, and preemptively beginning the fight.

If Atar _wished_ a fight about this he would have to begin it, and Findekáno would neither defend himself in advance of attack, nor apologize at all.

" . . . no," his father said, after what seemed like a genuinely blank pause, in a voice that clearly strove to be matter-of-fact. "No, it would not, although it might alter what, of all of this, could claim the distinction of being the worst part."

Findekáno made himself let that go by as well.

"Sit down," Atar added, gesturing to the other chair beside the table that was, as always, covered with the sheets and cords of record-keeping, along with messages, maps and plans. Only after Findekáno had done so did his father continue, "Naicë encouraged you to come."

Findekáno forbore to ask either why his father thought she would, or that she would need to - given that admittedly if she had not he would not be here - and replied only, "She spoke pointedly," keeping his voice as composed as he could make it.

He still did not like being here unprepared, and beyond that he found he could not wholly interpret the way his father was looking at him, nor what there was to read in his father's face - and on top of _that_ , he could feel that for all there was to read if he could, there was more that was hidden, somehow. 

It felt as if the ground were uneven underfoot, or worse, that he did not _know_ if the ground were uneven or not. And this was not a feeling he enjoyed. 

"She often does," his father said, his voice mild. "She writes pointedly as well, although at times her hand requires some deciphering."

At Findekáno's look of query - which he seemed to have been expecting - Atar passed him a small, irregular piece of paper that looked as if it could have originally been the wrapping for something, which bore the sharp - indeed pointed - if extremely formal and courteous reminder of the sanctity of the Asiëmar, even a newly declared one, and of the precedents and duties of a nestandë's care, and their reasons.

In what was, to be sure, a somewhat scrawled and messy hand, with many tehtar, a few of which seemed idiosyncratic and were often crossed out and the word rewritten beside it as if only after writing did Naicë recall that the sign she used was unique to herself and would not be understood by anyone else. 

Indeed Naicë had likely found a scrap of paper because her message would have been illegible in wax. 

"I gather my brother is not here," Findekáno said, putting the note down and wondering what she had used for a pen, or if she had sent someone to find her one, for he could not recall having any to hand in his tent, and she must have sent this soon after he had returned last night.

"No, Selmonwë has chosen to spend the day by the lake, I am told," his father replied in a measured voice, and the use of _Turukáno's_ amilessë confirmed that however they had spoken this morning, it had not ended well. "Or on it." 

Findekáno bit his tongue on saying that perhaps if his brother fell in, his head would cool. There seemed to be the faint ghost of an ache in his temples and the bones of his face, but it took him some moments to remember what that meant, and force his jaw to release. 

Atar added, "I believe his morning began with the discovery that his daughter chose to sleep in Artanis' tent."

And _that_ meant that Itarillë was openly avoiding her father, and did not yet wish to speak to him. Or at least, as open as ever she was with such things. 

It was not that Itarillë hid from confrontation, as such, but she did more often than not arrange matters so that if someone wished to confront her, they would have to do it very deliberately, and with no possible way to deny that they had sought it out. They would have to decide they wished to have the fight, and could not merely be angry or contrary nearby and wait for it to happen. 

Indeed, they would have to go to great _effort_ to begin the fight with her.

That had been a habit of Elenwë's as well, which likely did not help Turukáno's feelings on the matter at the moment. Findekáno knew this absently, but did not feel any particular manner about it.

"Findaráto is arranging parties to scout to the high places," his father went on. "He thinks the air is beginning to clear, and I agree."

"It is possible our Enemy has discovered that his gloom leaves his servants at a greater disadvantage than it leaves us," Findekáno replied, evenly. "I may have given him some examples to learn it from."

He still could not entirely read his father's tone, his face or his posture, and so he remained somewhat guarded. For a moment his father only looked at him, as if in some acknowledgement that this took them nowhere, but his gaze was unreadable and yet not invasive.

In truth if Findekáno had been less weary - again, already, with barely half the day gone - he might have had more difficulty simply waiting under that regard. But he wasn't less weary. There was an itch in his mind at the silence, at its implied emptiness and waiting, but that itch had no mastery at all over the weight of his exhaustion, making it easy to wait. 

And perhaps they were all like Itarillë, sometimes. Findekáno had thought that before.

It was Atar who eventually broke the silence. "This was reckless, onya," he said, quiet but definite.

"Dangerous, Atar," Findekáno corrected, evenly. "I knew what I risked and I risked my life and my life only. I knew no one else would come, which made that easy."

The last part spoke itself, perhaps unwisely. Or unkindly. Findekáno was not sure. Nor was he sure that it mattered much to him just now. 

"You could have been killed, or worse," his father said, his look still unwavering yet unreadable.

"Yes," Findekáno agreed, in the same voice as before. "I knew that."

And he made himself leave it at that: made himself not answer anything unspoken until it became spoken, even as the silence after his words stretched into discomfort. His father would still have to attack first, if he wished to fight.

But his father did not attack. Only sighed, after a moment, then shifted to sit more comfortably in his chair and said, in a slightly weary voice, "At least you are unlikely to try it twice."

His father meant it as a jest, that was clear, and indeed it should have been. But for a moment the thought of _needing_ to, the thought that anything could make it necessary, made Findekáno feel unexpectedly ill. He did not at once find any reply, but stared fixedly at a point in the rugs upon the ground that was beginning to wear, as the nausea passed.

When he looked up again, his father's face had that peculiar look of resignation on it again, along with all the other things Findekáno still could not read.

"Well?" Atar asked, gently. "What _did_ you do, onya? As yet I only know the part where you arrived back carried by Manwë's Eagle and carrying your cousin. While a great deal in itself, I think that also leaves a great deal to be told."

It seemed as if some kind of moment had passed; some point of tension had released and they had stepped over some particular border. Findekáno felt unsure the debate was finished, or even of the nature of the debate or what side his father was taking - but if it could be left for now, truthfully, he would leave it. He was at least not being pressed to justify himself, only to say what had happened. That much, he would do. 

Somehow, though, telling made him more weary, and more than once he found himself almost caught in that telling, and telling more than he meant to. 

When he had done it, in the midst of the doing, the journey had not seemed so great or so far, and everything he had encountered, from the uncertain path through the mountain pass - still half-choked with snow - to the ash-and-smoke-filled air had simply seemed like something uncomfortable, something to be overcome.

The patrols of urqui and the things that looked like but were not wolves had passed without much thought at the time, and so had the handful of times he had been left with no choice but to kill them - but now as he told the spoke memory unfolded and all of the things his mind had held no space for now demanded his acknowledgement. 

Including how many of them there had been, and how wrong all could have gone with only the smallest mischance. 

Too, there were things Findekáno could not avoid bringing to light without truly lying - which he did not wish to do - but which he also did not wish to think about. 

Let alone say aloud and then wonder what his father thought of it.

Yet without lying, without truly working to deceive . . . Findekáno could not hide that before Thorondor had come, his only choice had been between abandoning Maitimo there, or killing the other half of himself with his own hand. He could not help making that clear, and so could not keep Atar from seeing it, from knowing, that it had been true. 

He could only do his best to speak around it and know that it hung there, unspoken but not unknown. He could only refuse for a moment to look at Atar's face, and so let whatever flicker of reaction there was or was not pass by without having in turn to see it written there. 

So he told it: he told of leaving the encampment, he told of running alone through the ash choked dark and of taking the mountain pass, of the cold. He told of crossing the green land between the mountains they could see and the hard, cold mountains of the north where the three-peaked crown of fire-mountains now spat their ash and smoke into the sky, and of the things that crawled there and loved the darkness yet could not see any better in it than he could. 

He told of reaching Angamando and of climbing the slopes above it; of finding Maitimo and Thorondor's aid and the band Findekáno could not break, and so what he did instead. 

It seemed . . . much longer, and much more, spoken aloud. He did not like that. 

" - and the rest you have already said," he finished, quietly.

His father sat back in his own chair, and exhaled slowly. He did not say anything, and little showed in his face save that his eyes were ever so slightly wider than they had been, and something shadowed them, though it was difficult to say what it was. 

Findekáno met his gaze and shrugged.

"No, Atar," he said, anticipating the question, "I do not know why the Eagle came or why he suffered to carry us back - believe me, I did not ask, and he did not offer me any reason. I do not know if it signifies or portends, I do not know if it was simply a whim of generosity from Thorondor himself or something else, I have no answer there. I only know that he did." He shook his head. "His claws dug into the sheer cliff like it was rotten wood."

The words came out of him of their own accord, as if they fell out of an unlatched door - but it was true. Thorondor's talons had slid into the stone in a shower of dust and shards and a screaming of tormented rock, and it had seemed to take no strength from the Eagle to do it. No more strength than his little brethren used to dig into soft-rotted logs. 

For a moment his father watched him, quietly. Then he said, "You have slept, I know that - have you eaten, since you returned?"

The question was so unexpected it was abrasive, irritating as a blast of coarse sand in a strong wind, and Findekáno felt himself rising to that irritation and beginning, "Yes - "

And then he had to stop.

"No," he allowed. "Irissë . . . said something about food, I think, but then I - was too weary, I fell asleep instead."

"You are still weary," his father told him, as if something had been decided or determined, though Findekáno knew not what. But then, he did not care much to find out now, if it meant he did not have to argue or contest with his father. And it seemed it meant just that. 

Atar gestured behind him to the door. "Go," he said. "Eat first this time, but then rest again. I think you are more worn than you know, and now at least I feel certain I will know precisely where you are, even if I must brave Naicë should I need to find you."

Findekáno felt there was likely no answer he could give that would still seem like a good idea hours from now, so he gestured assent, and left it at that.

_iv._

Itarillë had slept in Artanis' tent to avoid her father. 

She had considered Irissë's tent instead; taking refuge at her aunt's would make it much less . . . _obvious,_ maybe, that she did not return to their own tent for the sake of avoiding him. But at the same time, this was because he might seek her out there, especially if Irissë were elsewhere, and that would . . .

It would defeat the purpose: if Atar arrived there and she did not answer, he might well enter. That would be the same as if she had simply gone to her own bed.

No one entered Artanis' tent without her leave. Not even her brothers. With Findaráto that did not seem surprising, for he was courteous to all even when angry - indeed even when _very_ angry.

But even Aikanáro, who could easily be as reckless and thoughtless as Findekáno could and more so, and Artaresto, and Angaráto - who were _older_ than Artanis and yet nowhere near as courteous as their eldest brother, and who neither of them were so careful about their own dwellings - 

Even they treated their _sister's_ threshold with the greatest and utmost respect. 

Never mind anyone else in Hyarestolië.

Itarillë's father would not come to seek her here, and that made it ever less likely she would have to speak to him before he had wrestled fully with his anger and hurt. And if she did not have to do that, she would not have to say things she did not wish to say.

For there were many of those. Far too many.

She did not wish to have to say to him that he teetered on the verge of letting his grief and anger make him as cruel as the one he held to blame for them. She did not wish to have to tell him that if he were held to the same account as he now sought to hold Nelyafinwë, then Findaráto, Artanis and their brothers should have left them all and gone back with their father, and could have done so, and without them -

Without them the Ice would have killed so many more than it had.

Most of all, Itarillë did not wish to tell her father that her mother would be furious with him right now. Furious, and deeply, deeply grieved that her husband could entertain such cruelty. Could look at someone as wretched as the ravaged shape of their cousin in that moment and feel anything other than grief and pity, whatever might have lain between them before.

Itarillë did not want to say _she thought you were a fool for all of this, and yet she came because she knew you would go and she thought it would be cruel to make you go without her and without me, whatever you said, and she knew I would have stayed if she had and you would have been alone, and it would break her heart to see you now._

The last thing Itarillë wanted was to have to throw all these things in her father's face and yet, if he found her before he found his sense, if he pressed or chided or questioned her before his wits and thought overcame his anger - then she would have to, and then she would have to live with whatever came after.

Faced with that, she would rather it be _very_ clear that she was avoiding him, and sleep in Artanis' tent after her own watch over the injured ended. It might upset Atar now, but once he had come to his senses he would understand why she had done so.

It was a relief that she had to explain none of this to Artanis herself, who only told her to hush her apologies, and lie down to rest, and had covered Itarillë with a blanket before she left.

Almost at once, sleep had struck Itarillë like the rushing of a broken ice-shelf. And blessedly there were no dreams.

It was rare, to have to explain things to Artanis, especially when it came to explaining why one did or did not do something. Itarillë knew her father and uncle found that disconcerting, but she found it comforting.

When Itarillë woke it was to Lindomë shaking her gently by the shoulder. Her arandurë brought food and drink, water and clean clothing, and then because she seemed anxious staying within Artanis' domain without Artanis present, Itarillë asked her to go and make sure her father was elsewhere, for when she went back to her uncle's tent.

It would be foolish, after all, to have gone to these lengths only to be intercepted on her return to her nautamo.

Lindomë said, "He has been by the lake since he spoke with your honoured grandfather and Lord Findaráto early in the morning," and unspoken in her answer was the apparent truth that Itarillë was not the only one avoiding her father at the moment. 

Her look also said she knew exactly why Itarillë had asked, but then: she had been with Itarillë on many, many other times when Itarillë had delicately wished to avoid having an argument with her father that her father would soon have the sense to wish to avoid himself.

Itarillë sighed. Perhaps at least that meant that this morning Haru was governed more by sense and understanding, and less by anger, grief, and belated fear about what Findekáno had so clearly done. That would be a blessing as well.

Even if that meant that her father was more likely to be angry, perhaps for longer than before.

It was by now late in the morning, and Itarillë ate, bathed her face, arms and neck, and dressed as swiftly as she could. She paused to determine if she could smell any rain in the air, and when she could not - only the same smoke as before - she ignored the shoes that Lindomë had brought, as well as the amused and resigned look her arandurë gave her when she stepped out in her bare feet.

She knew Atar and Haru both quietly tried to get anyone - everyone - to encourage her to stop going barefoot. She intended to keep ignoring them. If they bothered Lindomë and the others too much, Itarillë would deal with that, too, but for now simply choosing to ignore what she did not wish to acknowledge worked well enough.

As they crossed to Findekáno's tent, passing Haru's, Itarillë spoke to Lindomë with an apology in her voice: "I fear Naicë will need more errands - " she began, but Lindomë shook her head.

"Truth, hériyë," she said, firmly, without letting Itarillë go any farther, "I would _far_ rather run hither and yon all over this camp than stay and assist Naicë as you do, or . . . even assist you to." She gave a slight shudder that was mostly a performance, but a genuine one.

Itarillë covered the laugh with her hand. They none of them complained, but she did _know_ that her aranduri had been greatly relieved as Naicë gathered students and helpers who could devote their time fully to the work of the nestandor and Itarillë and her kinswomen had been needed less and less. It meant that their own duties involved such work less and less, and save for the rare spirit, most of the Eldar preferred life that way. The ways of injury and sickness disturbed them, and so while they valued healing greatly, they mostly did not wish to be involved in it. 

"So please," Lindomë finished, "do not hesitate to let her find errands, it is a lovely morning."

"Well enough," Itarillë acknowledged, and pressed Lindomë's hand briefly before they stepped into Findekáno's tent.

And indeed, no sooner had they done so than Naicë sent Lindomë to find clean linen for bandages, and Lindomë gratefully fled.

"My uncle is gone?" Itarillë said, looking around the tent now that her arandurë had gone, and seeing that it was, indeed, only they two now beyond their nautamo, with Naicë seated behind one of the tables that the tent now held. The second bed was empty, and in the other Nelyafinwë slept deeply.

So deeply, indeed, that only the slight and slow movement of the blanket from each breath showed he lived.

It seemed absurd to think that he did not look well, even covered as he was now so that only his face showed - but he did not, and that was the shape of thought that came to her mind. He was pale and that pale was tinged with grey, nowhere more than around his eyes that seemed sunken and heavy in the sharp, gaunt lines of his face.

And then there was everything that Itarillë knew was beneath covering cloth. 

It was laughable to think _not well_ in the face of all of that. Yet still. 

It was true that Lindomë did not like to see blood, nor wounds, and nor did she enjoy many other parts of tending the wounded or the sick; but Itarillë thought that was not the only reason she did not wish to be here, to remain within this enclosing canvas.

They had all seen many die on the Ice, but that had been from mischance, or cold, or the thoughtless hunger of hunting kelvar. Sometimes it could be horrible, but it was not evil. The hunting creatures only wanted to eat, so that they and their young too could live; and the Ice thought nothing, the cold thought nothing, both merely forces that one could navigate or fall before, but which had no thoughts good or ill for what moved on their face.

You might die, you might face great pain, but there would be no _malice_. So that was one thing. 

This was another. What had been done to Nelyafinwë was something else entirely. 

Here every mark, every wound, every moment of agony held a purpose, an intent. It was by design. Every part of it was a choice with a mind behind it that knew fully what it did, what the suffering it inflicted meant, and did it not in spite of, but _because_ of that. Because it _wanted_ to.

All the malice, all the viciousness, all the _hatred_ \- it was frightening, in a way, to be so near the evidence of such evil.

Never mind the problems that could come next, with Nelyafinwë here, or any other part of the tangled mess everything made. Lindomë would never say any of this, would do whatever Itarillë asked of her and Itarillë knew this - but that did not mean it would not be a relief not to have to confront the evidence of all of that, right in front of her eyes. 

"I bade Findekáno go speak with your grandfather before Nolofinwë felt obliged to come here and disturb a yánesse," Naicë said, and then smiled at Itarillë briefly, without anything in it but approval. "You did well last night, and I know it could not have been easy."

Itarillë found herself both pleased and embarrassed at the praise. "None of them were truly thinking," she said, and Naicë's smile took on its more familiar wry edge.

"You will find this happens often, child," she said.

Then she stood, and looked about the tent, and sighed. "For all she so clearly wished to flee, perhaps I should not have sent your arandurë away so quickly," she said, with the air of one who has realized there is a task to do they had not fully made provision for. "This disarray cannot remain."

Somehow, Itarillë was not surprised that Naicë had seen Lindomë's wish to leave; for now she looked around as well and said, "I am strong enough to move tables and chairs, I think," with a wry note of her own. "Where do you wish them to go?"

She moved things as Naicë directed. Her father's brother had not kept a great deal in his tent before, using it - so it seemed to Itarillë - only to sleep and to keep his possessions out of the rain, and he had fewer possessions than one might expect. 

He had always been so: he would not avoid comfort if comfort was there, but it always seemed he could not be bothered to make the effort of creating it, and if someone else did not, he would do as he had done here: find a simple bed and blankets for it, coverings for the floor, and chests and other ways to store what he brought with him or needed. Then he would leave things at that, unless something prompted him to change. 

Now most of the chests and bags and other things that were his had been put to the far corner from the door and covered with a sheet of canvas weighted down with clean stones. Under Naicë's direction she and Itarillë arranged the rest of the things that had been brought since the last night until on the side furthest from the door lay both beds, the one empty and with the bedding folded back to air, and the other with Nelyafinwë still asleep, having not stirred even as he was moved.

Then between those beds and the rest of the space, two of the higher tables were set close together, with the chests and baskets of a nestandë's needs set in order to both sides.

It made a barrier, separating that space from the rest of the tent, and around the beds were set three of the braziers for warmth, though for the moment only the one nearest Nelyafinwë needed to be lit.

On the doorward side of that were the lower tables, Irissë's loaned couch and the chairs, They were set in a curve facing the door, with the brighter lamps and the final brazier, as well as the larger vessels of water someone had already brought.

As she set the last of the things in their place, Itarillë asked, "Did he wake, before?" meaning Nelyafinwë and Naicë sighed.

"Yes," she said. "Briefly, and in fear, but long enough for Findekáno to coax him to drink both clear and white broth, and to tend to those wounds that most needed changing in their dressing. And then he drank enough of the hasama for pain that he should sleep for some hours yet."

Itarillë watched her out of the corner of her eye for a moment and then gave up, saying, "I cannot tell if that means it is as bad as you thought it might be, or otherwise."

Naicë gave her a brief glance, and a brief, complicated smile. "Both," she said, "or at least - in some ways it could be worse, and I already know how, and in others it may already be worse, and I am not sure what to do about it."

She looked at Itarillë for a long moment then, as if weighing different things to say before choosing, "I do not think he will die; and I think if your uncle wanted a slave he would have one for the asking from this day forward."

Itarillë stopped and stared at her. "He does not," she said, the very thought making her skin crawl, certainty absolute; the idea had felt almost like a slap against her skin.

"That I know, child," Naicë replied, gently. "And that is not the point of what I said. Nelyafinwë has taken great hurt, and to more than his body - far more. Whether he be maimed by it or merely injured and find his way back to health. . . . will remain to be seen."

After a moment, Itarillë abandoned any thought of answering, and reached instead for the smallest set of scales to measure those flowers and leaves that would make up more of the medicine for pain. She knew how that could be done.

The rest of it remained beyond her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Nerwen] could not imagine what he might be thinking. It felt wholly beyond her and for once, she was happy enough at that. She could not imagine, and she did not wish to.

**III**

_i._

_It hurt._

_Everything hurt._

_Agony and understanding ebbed and pulsed but not together, and only understanding ever wholly ceased, and only for a time - fading in and out until memory and dream and the waking world tangled up, mixed, mingling and tainting and polluting each other until he could not tell which was which and it did not matter and all of it, all of it hurt._

_Pain sent Maitimo to darkness and when his sight returned he could see the rock and feel it cold under his skin or too hot in the burning light and see the blood in the grains where he tore his free hand bloody clawing at it, fingers burning, spine screaming, arm and shoulder numb until that numbing agony flared into his ribs like a filigree of dull burning endless ache and then something, something would change and fire would pour back into his arm until he screamed and then -_

_Dark. Or empty. Time passing , or missing, or -_

_But he was not there. Not on the rock, on the cliff, he was, it was . . ._

_. . . dark -_

_Deep, underneath, buried deep, stink of torches and pitch, of smoke, of fire, of blood, and he was on the ground, gasping at breath._

_Black smooth stone under his hands and under his knees, black rough iron around his wrists and neck, and blood dark on the ground in front of him where he spat it, trying to breathe._

_Everything screaming and his screaming, blood pooling in his mouth seeping from the places that screaming tore in his throat and blood shining on the stone floor in the light._

_Light. Always light. Pool of light - caught in it, trapped in it, blinded, naked and shivering, face wet._

_Hand around his throat - twisted, burned hand that burned where it touched but not like fire, not like, no, something else, like it reached into him and turned his blood to acid that ate at him from inside it_ hurt, _hand that wrapped itself around his throat and forced his head back forced him to look up again and meet eyes -_

_Eyes._

_Eyes like the void like nothing but a nothing that forces into you slides into your mind or batters, drives in it doesn't matter and no, and stop, please, no,_ please _-_

 _But his Enemy is in him and he cannot stop it, cannot defend, cannot keep anything out and it hurts, it hurts, and please, kill him instead please, he would go, he would leave he would go he would_ die _but he cannot the same power wraps around him and drags him back, trapped in this body trapped_ here _and held, mind ripped open, self forced open, invaded and spread wide and naked and bleeding and all of it in the light there is always light -_

_\- no. No light._

_No. That was before. Memory, or -_

_No light - no, some light, red, ugly, smoking torches, fire, open furnace burning in darkness but_ he _did not need light to see_ he _liked light only to make shadows_ he _could play with and use._

He _. The servant his Enemy's servant who is beautiful and powerful and joyful and cruel; who plays. The shadows are toys and_ he _uses them and wraps them tight and chokes -_

_Play. It was all play he wanted to die and could not and there is only more here in flickering fire and smoke._

_Maitimo hung from his wrists bound together, could not touch the ground, hard to breathe, ice and burning and numb in his wrists and hands and shoulders -_

_\- and then drowned out by the agony of a hand against his side, burning him, pressing against the bottom of his ribs,_ screaming _burn of thumb-palm-every-finger and then the claws at the tip of each that cut into his flesh and burned all through, always burned._

_Dug in and held tight and burned and burned and burned -_

He _let go and now Maitimo hung shivering, unable to stop, fighting to breathe, and eyes going dark, finally finally dark -_

 _\- but only a moment, only for a moment, wasn't allowed more: they forced his mouth open and something hot poured between his lips and down his throat and it hurt it hurt it_ burned _but it brought him back choking and gagging and now his head cleared, he could see and feel he did not_ want _this, no no let the dark take him let him_ die _please, please, please but they would not. But_ he _would not._

 _This time when_ he _took hold of Maitimo's hips with both hands there was no fire, nothing but the tips of those claws breaking his skin and pushing in underneath to his flesh and digging there, pulling him close and every burn and cut and wound and lash burned again pulled back against leather and cloth sending Maitimo's mind reeling and he cannot he is losing -_

_\- one hand moves to reach to cover his mouth so when the claws of the other dig deeper the scream chokes in his throat. He tries to cringe away at the touch of a tongue, just burning, to the tracks of the tears on his cheek._

_And_ his _voice murmuring_ so easily overcome, Maitimo, lovely-one, _and_ he _-_

\- _memory. More memory more knowing more -_

 _He lay in his bed. His own bed, at home._ Home _, lost-home, white-stone-pale-wood-fine-cloth_ home _Kindler mercy home, he wanted to go home, he was home, Maitimo lay in his bed at home but it wasn't home, it was a lie, his hands and feet were bound and Atar lay over him -_

 _\- and no, this was a lie,_ stop _, this wasn't real, this never happened, Atar never did -_

 _Breath against his ear almost gently saying,_ given all else he's done to you and used you for, the more fool he to waste the chance; your mother named you well enough _and_ he _put on Atar's voice along with Atar's shape in the lie of home and Maitimo knew it was a lie and it still did not stop,_ he _did not stop. The lie went on and on and_ on -

_And then it was not Atar's shape on top of him, not Atar's body forcing into his, it was worse, and it was still a lie but knowing that, knowing did nothing meant nothing he could know it for a lie it is still a perfect lie it is still_

_-_ that face _with eyes that are not his and a smile he would never wear and still_ those hands _around his throat or twisted in his hair to haul his head back and_ that voice _in his ear breath warm against his skin laughing, mocking, asking_ and what about you would disgust him most, do you think, if he could see you now _and it hurt, and it did not stop -_

 _\- and it still did not stop. Not until Maitimo lay bleeding and shivering on a stone table in the darkness of a room lit by torches and he wanted to die and he wanted to_ die _and his body trapped him, he could not leave it, bound as he was he could not curl in on himself in the dark and cold and_ he _left and took the torches but_ he _would be back -_

 _And his face is against the stone on the cliff and his arm is numb again but there are rents in his skin he doesn't remember, an open wound on his neck and one on his thigh he doesn't remember, they came again, the ones that fly, and then, then the brush of his Enemy's mind laughing, laughter that is like being stabbed with so many knives as his Enemy says,_ you do not remember? Let me help you.

_And does. And Maitimo retches against the stone and the movement wakes his arm and shoulder and side to agony and he screams again but there is no sound._

_But that was -_

"Maitimo - Maitimo, tyenya, wake up -"

A voice. There was a voice.

_\- memory was . . .now? soft under him but not home, wood-smoke and -_

" _Maitinya_ , shh, wake up," and a voice, the voice, familiar and now his chest hurt and constricted, different pain different tightening, nothing pulling on his shoulder but tight rock under his lungs. His eyes opened, he could see, could see who spoke and no, not this no _no_ he could not, not this, not again not this put him back please kill him _please not this -_

Pain threaded through his side as Maitimo tried to recoil, knowing it would help nothing but trying still - but dull pain and strange and far away. Something held his arm close to his side but not, that was not what hurt, and, and, he could see and nothing was what he expected, above him was canvas and the light of lamps yellow against the near-white, and this was not home, or a lie of home, this was - something else -

And when he tried to recoil Findekáno had held one hand out, reaching out as if to catch him but, no - Findekáno reached over him to catch the other side of . . . narrow bed, cot, camp bed, and it was Findekáno's face, not -

"Careful," he said, Findekáno, - Káno, _Kányo? -_ said, having reached over and past and caught, steadied the cot. "Careful, tyenya," Kányo said, and then he drew back to sit, to where he knelt beside the cot, on the ground. "We did that before, and the bed is light enough to knock over - I think it hurt you when you fell, so I do not think we should do it again."

Voice and face and - eyes.

Maitimo made himself look, did not want to but made himself look and see and did not . . . did not find what he expected.

Did not find what he feared. Found -

Familiar face, familiar voice, _beloved_ voice and words, names, the sound of syllables he missed, craved, _wanted_ and all of it . . . stayed. Did not change. Continued to be. Even as he looked.

Findekáno's eyes were grey and clear, and his hair was braided back and wrapped, and it was longer than in memory, and his shirt was linen and a tear was sewn near the collar and the finished edges of the cloth were beginning to fray, and this was different from memory this was not pulled from memory, memory had never held this, and Findekáno's eyes were grey and clear and anxious and they did not change, they did not - they stayed his. They were his. Kányo's eyes.

Maitimo watched them. Waited for them to change.

And they did not.

Without any thought, Maitimo went to reach - and flinched at the stab of pain that came at the little movement he could manage with his right arm. Flinched and stopped. He could not move his arm, something bound it to him, but even trying hurt. It _hurt_ and -

"Careful," Findekáno repeated, and he reached out to take Maitimo's other hand in both of his. The touch struck aside the flight of Maitimo's thought, knocking it away from the point of pain and he looked at Findekáno again and Findekáno still . . . stayed.

Stayed himself. Collar mended, eyes grey and face worried.

Real.

 _Ai_ , _Airë Tári, Elentári_ , _please_ -

It was difficult to breathe. Not like before, not like when the weight of his body had made each breath impossible, not like that, but still it was hard, as if there was not enough room in him. As if something were tied around his ribcage and tightening and he could only choke breath out, not draw air in. But not like it. Not like it, for he knew that he remembered that and this was not like it and yet it was difficult to breathe.

And now Maitimo found thin, blurred memories, too easily mistaken and mingled with dreams, it had felt like a dream, but of here, before. A good dream. Of this, but - different: waking up, here and in this place, and doing this before -

 _I think it hurt you when you fell,_ Kányo had said, and it had, he had fallen and then Kányo had been here but because he had awoken here and it had to be another trick, another game but then it had not been, it had been . . . here, and Kányo had been here -

And before. There were things . . . before that, the shape of memory but new memory, Kányo and an Eagle, and . . .

But now. He was here now. Whatever that meant wherever . . . here was, he was . . . here. Now.

Now.

Now Kányo's hands were around his, holding his hand, and they . . . _were_ Kányo's hands. Shape of use and wear in the right places, familiar. And that did not change. They were warm and they were . . . careful and they were real and that did not change either. Touch, on his skin it . . . _stayed_ and felt like Kányo's hands touching him, please, ai, Elentári _please_ -

Over Findekáno's shoulder something, someone moved, startling Maitimo and dragging his thoughts to her: a woman, dressed in fawn and copper, a woman he did not know. She was small and her hair was so dark it drank the light, a soft darkness, and it was caught up in braids. She was dressed as one of his kind, she was his kind but he . . . did not know her.

Maitimo did not know her. He did not remember her. She was Noldë, that was in her hair and her eyes and the shape of her face, but he did not know her.

She watched them, hands clasped in front of her, face thoughtful but closed and there was power in her and he did not know her and could not read her. But she was Quendë. She was Noldë. That did not change either.

"Maitinya," Findekáno said, quietly, and Maitimo looked at him again and he _still_ did not change: eyes his own, and worried.

So worried, and there were other things, there was . . . grief, and pain. Maitimo could see them. Did he do that? Was that . . . because of him?

Maitimo's head felt full of . . . mud, clinging slime, thinking was like wading through waist deep and he -

"All is well, melindyo," Kányo said, gently, touching the side of his face with one hand, drawing his thoughts back. "I promise. You are safe, and you are here, with me."

Maitimo's mind felt slow, sluggish and clumsy; it stumbled here, on voice and face and eyes and hand on his, and against his cheek, calluses that caught against his skin, hands he thought were lost and he would never touch again. It stumbled remembering the cliff and begging, begging _kill me_ , unsure if what he saw and heard was real, could be real - but maybe, but if, if it could be, if it was, then mercy _please_ -

\- _I have no right, but mercy, if you ever loved me kill me I beg you please -_

He remembered the shape of the words in his mouth, _please_ , begging please - he remembered wings, and despair, and then . . . nothing? But then there were shadows of this - _we did that before_ \- and now, now all his thoughts staggered and fell around this. Around . . . here.

 _Here_. Kányo said, _You are here_.

It seemed as if he should know where _here_ meant, what it meant. That he had known or . . .been told? But it was as if the thoughts were across a vast empty space and he could only crawl as far as the hands holding his and that was not far enough to understand. Not to understand any more than those hands holding his.

Alive, _alive_ , here. And holding his.

The woman Maitimo did not know spoke, then. But though she spoke with words he knew, and he knew that they were, he could not understand her; the words made no meaning, he could only hear them as . . . noise, could make no sense of them. Could take no meaning. As if he heard underwater, or far away, and yet neither was true. They were words he knew, he should understand them, but they were just noise, and noise, and he did not . . .

Findekáno said his name, then, and - maybe he had already? Before? Maitimo found that he had been staring at their hands, and raised his eyes and tried again to . . . make sense of words, now Kányo spoke them, though it was still . . . difficult, and slow. But -

But the worry had changed to dismay and that was wrong, Maitimo could not stand that so he had to understand, he had to make meaning, had to listen to the words that Kányo said and made sense of him, and he tried.

Listened; tried, while Káno said the same thing over again, each thought broken into little pieces until eventually it made its way through.

Sit - they wanted him to sit. They wanted him to sit up, and Maitimo began to and then -

\- _hurt,_ pain, white stabbing into his side and his head -

\- and then, he made a sound? He did not mean to, did not . . . remember it, but something in his throat felt like he might have, the familiar scrape that came from a cry, and the ache in his side had turned sharper, turned inward to stab towards his lungs, and he could not move, his body would not listen.

The woman was telling Findekáno to help him, and then Kányo was, Kányo was moving to sit on the side of the bed behind him, beside him and behind him.

Káno . . .could. Káno was _here_ , was alive, a warm and solid shape against him, and that was near enough to make Maitimo's head spin more, to make it harder to listen to them to hear them and what they wanted him to do - he only wanted to stop and . . . know that, see and know that Findekáno was here and alive to help him sit up.

Findekáno helped Maitimo sit and held him, helped him to stay upright when he swayed. It hurt to sit, but that did not matter; the weakness mattered, the way his sight blurred and nothing . . . behaved as he tried to make it. The way the pain turned into weakness.

The way his body tried as if of its own accord to use his right arm and it hurt _more_ and could not move against the thing bound to his side anyway and he felt clumsy and slow and as if his body did not listen to him. That mattered.

Had Káno not held him, he would have fallen.

The front of Kányo's shoulder was solid against his back and Kányo's arm curved now around him, helping him take and hold the bowl the woman offered.

This, yes. This, Maitimo remembered this. This was the reason they wanted him to sit: to take these, and drink them. That was what they wanted.

Maitimo remembered this, barely. He did. A little. It felt like it should have been a dream but it . . . was not, it had been real and he remembered it a little. Drinking these, and also other things - and he remembered before.

Remembered feeling of Kányo holding him tightly, arms wrapped around him, and it had hurt but he wanted it, it hurt but he would hurt forever, he would, happily, if only Kányo would not stop. Would not go, would not let go. He remembered that.

And other things. But they were fainter and he . . . did not want them, they were not memories he wanted but many of them were urgent even as they were faint. He could not grasp them but they demanded something of him and he should -

There were things he should . . . do? Should say, should _do_ , but though something tugged at his thoughts he could not grasp it and so for now he fell back on trying to do what Káno and the strange woman wanted of him.

The things he drank now he also remembered. Familiar broth first and then a strange heavy liquid, warm and sweet and strange in taste; some infusion in water that was not yullas, and then something bitter that seemed to stick to his tongue, and that the woman said was for the pain.

Last time that had been masked in something else but this time it was not - but it was only bitter, not foul, and Káno gave it to him so Maitimo did not protest.

And the pain did ebb, and quickly. But at the same time his thoughts grew heavier and slower that they had already been, and his eyes did not want to stay open, and no, he did not want this, he did _not_ -

Maitimo fought, or tried to, but he was weak there, too, and his body obeyed him less and he felt as if he were far away from it, and something - sleep - wrapped around his thoughts and pulled them towards oblivion. Maitimo felt Findekáno move to lay him back down against the pillows, cradling his head but moving away, and he did not want that -

Maitimo knew he would lose, fighting against the heavy weight on body and mind, but he tried and tried to find Kányo's hand again. He did not _want_ this. Did not know why, only did _not_ , tried to fight it to stay awake to -

There were things that should be said, or told, or - he couldn't remember. But they should be, should be something and could not if he did not stay awake to chase them. And more, and beyond, he did not want to - he did not -

If he lost, if he let this moment of waking go he would have to do this again, all of this, again, remember again, understand again, believe again and he did not want that. Wanted to stay here, to know he was here, to know Kányo was here he did not _want_ to lose this again. Not again.

Would. Would have to do this again. Find his way back again. He would have to crawl up out of the pit in his mind again and he could not, he wanted to stay here, he did not want to start again.

Please not again. _Please_.

It did not matter; he was too weak to stay and knew he had lost.

Maitimo felt Findekáno rest a hand over his own where it rested on his stomach, as he lost the struggle to keep his eyes open, lost the strength to hold the hand he could feel. Felt Findekáno's other hand cradle his head for a moment, and felt the brief kiss to his brow.

Heard _peace, tyenya, rest; I am here, all is well_. Felt the words burn but bring comfort in their burning, and clung to them, as thought fell apart and he lost everything again.

_ii._

Nerwen watched as the hasama took its effect, settling Nelyafinwë once more into dreamless sleep. She also watched as Findekáno's posture sagged a little, as surrendering to a weight that lay on his shoulders - a weight that he had not wanted to show even a hint of, while Nelyafinwë still watched him, but which now threatened to crush him to the ground.

She could not imagine what he might be thinking. It felt wholly beyond her and for once, she was happy enough at that. She could not imagine, and she did not wish to.

Nerwen had stayed out of Nelyafinwë's sight; if he could perceive Irissë as a threat, she herself could only be much worse, and it had been clear to her that once again, it was taking some time for Nelyafinwë to believe that what he saw was real.

Even after it seemed he had accepted it, she remained out of view. Intuition told her that it would be better to; that Nelyafinwë's worn, frayed thoughts could only withstand so much, and that Naicë's presence and managing the broth was already enough. More than enough. That much strained the threads of his mind ragged as it was - any more, and they might begin to break.

And that each thread torn would make everything that much harder. That if you did think of the mind as being like a woven fabric, Nelyafinwë's was not merely rent and torn but in many places close to wearing away entirely, and every missing piece would have to be repaired.

Exhaustion made the mind as frail as tissue, and though perhaps it was the hasama that made him sleep, it was not _that_ which brought the weariness. Horror did that - pain, and memory, and starvation, and everything else.

Nerwen could _feel_ that weariness. It came off her cousin like heat, and in its kind, it was familiar.

She had encountered it before in others from time to time as they crossed Helcaraxë - there could come a point of grief and pain where they became a sickness that seemed to eat at the mind, bind it up and slow it down, drag it into a stumbling exhaustion and frailty that was like they had forgotten what rest could be.

So the kind was familiar, but what lay before her to see was far greater, or perhaps far, far deeper. As if it had leached through into Nelyafinwë's bones like a poison, into the very marrow, and then seeped back out into his blood.

Nerwen had seen this kind of weariness take its toll before; indeed, before they had learned to recognize it, twice she had seen it kill. Had seen the moment where the afflicted simply stopped and lay down and abandoned their bodies, fled hröa and consciousness and the world that tormented them and it was too late to help them.

But it was like the deep cold, starvation or great thirst: if you saw it before death came, if you recognized what you saw and the danger of it, it was in some ways simple enough to ease.

As long as you saw it before the crisis, you knew how to intervene. Knew to give the afflicted food, rest, miruvórë and other things to drink; to give them a sense of safety or an outlet for grief, some piece of comfort to cling to, to hang their being upon. That was the key, and while those who suffered from the state were not healed in _whole_ by such measures, they were at least able to think with some clarity and touch the world about them without the lethargy and blank emptiness. They were brought out of the crisis.

They could even begin to tell you what else they might need. What it was that had left them stricken so, that you might find them the fuller remedy, even if it took some time.

From what Irissë had told her, what Naicë had said, and all the more from what Nerwen had just seen, instead of that shape, the shape of things she knew . . . instead of that, as yet Nelyafinwë fell from agonized distress directly into that lethargy and exhaustion - but did not emerge from it, even with nourishment, comfort and miruvóre. Even without the hasama and its clouding nature, there was no clarity, no shaking off the clinging cloying emptiness. Not even for a moment.

As yet the only further remedy was sleep, or so Naicë said. Nerwen could only hope that would change - that it would be a _remedy_ , one that lead to more recovery. It disturbed her deeply to look into the face of one of her own kind and see only that emptiness. Let alone one of her kin.

Findekáno remained where he was, kneeling on the ground beside the bed. One hand held Nelyafinwë's; the other hand fallen from touching Nelyafinwë's face to resting on his uninjured shoulder. Findekáno too looked distant, lost in thought and weary, though it was by no means the same.

He was weary, but that was not what came from _him_ like heat from a fire.

From Findekáno, it was grief, and a particular kind of dismay, distress. Nerwen could feel that. Or nearly smell it in the air. But she had little remedy for it, either, for the remedy lay in the state of the one he knelt beside.

The last time she had felt so much from so close a kin, Elenwë's body had not yet lost its warmth to the snow. Nerwen doubted Turukáno would much like the comparison. Yet, too, it was not lost on Nerwen that then, Turukáno's grief had come when his child and Elenwë's was in his arms, clinging to him; when Nerwen's brother and his own, and his father as well, had been gathered close to take from him what they could. And he had known that. Relied on that.

Findekáno knelt on the ground here alone. And perhaps worst, Nerwen did not yet consider attempting to offer her own comfort. She knew her cousin would not be able to trust her enough to take it. Not yet.

She could not blame him: were she in his place, with all the reasons he had, she would be just as untrusting. And so it was perhaps a blessing that Irissë was not here, Nerwen thought, as she caught movement out of the corner of her eye, from the other side of the tent where Naicë waited. Irissë would _need_ to give comfort, and she would struggle to understand why her brother could not trust her.

When Nerwen gave the nestandë a questioning look, Naicë beckoned, so Nerwen crossed the tent to stand with her - far enough away, she did not miss, that distant as he was Findekáno might not hear.

"The next time our nautamo wakes," Naicë said, quietly, "it would be best if he could fully bathe, or be bathed if necessary. The wounds themselves are clean enough, and we did what we could as things were, but - " The nestandë let the sentence trail off.

Nerwen nodded, following her thought easily enough. That, too, they had found often enough: that with both those injured and those struck by that blank, staring and dangerous exhaustion, a remarkable change in spirit could come from simple things - like being clean, dressed, comforted. It was as if, could they only be cleaned and dressed in clean clothes, given bodily comfort, the world were less something horrible, beyond their control and a torment inflicted on them.

Even if their great griefs and burdens remained, the small comforts greatly aided them in facing what they carried.

In this case Nerwen could only imagine the effect would be . . . more. Much more. Although, as she turned over in her mind what would need to be done, it might also be more difficult, though not for simple, practical reasons.

Granted that they would have to add a bathing alcove to the tent, for her cousin's indifferent simplicity had extended to using the bathhouse rather than arranging for privacy he did not particularly care about - that was merely a matter of arranging to have it done. Overseeing it might even give Findekáno something to occupy his thoughts while Nelyafinwë slept, something that was neither brooding on his worry or grief, nor stumbling into a fight with his brother before either of them was ready to speak to the other.

Nerwen would make certain to choose craftsmen to attend to the matter who could tolerate - or ignore - a certain amount of Finwion interference, though that might mean borrowing them from Artaresto's current work. Her brother would be happy enough to lend them to make certain that their cousins did not fall to quarrelling.

That much was the matter of few hours and some thought, of finding a tub and a stove and arranging a little more canvas. That was not her worry.

A small part of that worry was whether or not Nelyafinwë would be able to walk, even a little way - he might not. But more than that, even if he could manage to move himself, he almost certainly should not be left alone at all for some time, much less near water and fire both, and he would not be able to bathe himself without help.

That worried her.

Irissë had told Nerwen about Nelyafinwë's first waking. Indeed, her cousin had sought her out almost at once after Naicë bid her leave, distressed and grieved - not even so much by what Nelyafinwë had done when he first awoke, by that immediate fear and recoil, but by what had come later. What had come after Findekáno had managed to calm him and get him to take the broths and miruvorë, and then coaxed him to allow Irissë and Naicë to change what bandages needed it, and be certain nothing risked festering.

It had upset Irissë greatly, how difficult that last had been. How clear it had been that Nelyafinwë did not wish them, wish _her_ , to touch him and in truth allowed it only because Findekáno asked him. Even there, Irissë had said it seemed that even beyond that, Nelyafinwë did not feel as if he could make them stop; that he had no choice but to endure, and that he waited each moment for that moment to turn to pain or . . . something else.

Nerwen's cousin had not been able to put words to _something else_ , had struggled with it for a few moments before giving up and returning to the core of her dismay: that this had come after Nelyafinwë had understood at least somewhat where he was, had come at least to believe that Findekáno was there, that this was no longer his captivity.

That even so, as little as Irissë being close had made him flinch, brace himself as if against some attack.

Nerwen had listened with sympathy, and given what comfort she could, keeping most of her thoughts to herself. At least half of the nature that had given her cousin her amilessë came from the softness of Irissë's heart and the strength of her feeling, and the ways she tried to move quickly and lightly through the world to keep away from the pain of them.

Sometimes it was more difficult for her to look beyond the tidal pull of what she felt; and beyond that, it meant that though she had answered the need when Naicë asked, there were matters she danced away from, and paths of thought she did not follow, especially if the nestandë did not take them down those paths step by step.

There were many things Irissë did not wish to know. Nerwen understood that. But it was one of the places they were very much different, and she had not avoided those same paths of thought, and indeed had pursued them far enough to find the questions Naicë would not answer, and the knowledge she would not share.

It meant that she could guess why Nelyafinwë did not wish to be touched, even if the touch brought no harm and no pain. Especially given that Naicë had made certain to have clothing brought, though Nelyafinwë would do nothing but sleep.

It seemed likely enough that bathing would bring much the same difficulty, if not far worse.

Nerwen's gaze fell on her cousin where he still remained, and she considered that they might have some luck: their nautamo had not seemed unwilling to let Findekáno touch, help or hold him, and his help might be enough. They would have to hope so.

Naicë seemed to follow her thoughts, perhaps because she was walking the same paths herself, and said quietly, "Fortunately your cousin has a distinct presence," and Nerwen felt her mouth want to twitch in amusement. He did, unless he was exerting himself towards stealth. Few were unaware when Findekáno came near, even before they saw him.

She hesitated, however, and felt drawn to ask, "Will it be enough?" and at that Naicë sighed.

"We may hope so; it has been thus far. If not there are other hasamar I can try," the nestandë answered. "But it would be better if it were enough." And Nerwen chose to leave it at that.

She finished helping Naicë with what preparations and replenishments needed her aid, and then saw to the orders that the small bathing tent be built - and built quietly, and without bothering the tent's occupants, and with a certain amount of discretion. She set one of her arandurë, Halaniel, to see it done and gave her the key to the canvas stores.

She should go to rest. Nerwen knew that, and recognized both the look that Halaniel gave her that agreed, and the second layer to the look, which said that Halaniel knew full well that Nerwen was not going to rest, and that her friend had already decided it was not yet worth arguing with her over it.

Not yet.

It would be wise to return to her own tent, to eat and to rest even if she could not sleep. It would mean, as well, that she would be easy to find if she was needed and she might be, particularly as the bathing tent was made, or if her cousin decided to come out into the encampment now that Nelyafinwë slept.

That might cause a stir. It might be best if she were easy to find, if that happened, and so it would be wise to return to her tent. And eat. And rest.

Thus far the encampment gossip had been blessedly restrained - perhaps because nearly everyone seemed to hope that if they all held still and did not disturb anything, nothing untoward and unhappy might occur. And perhaps, also, because no one was yet sure what they thought of what had happened.

An Eagle had brought Findekáno back, after all: who knew what that meant? If it was a blessing from the Power that had otherwise turned his back on them? And did they wish to admit to themselves or to others that they hoped it was so? And what it might mean, if it were?

Some rumours did say that he had brought Nelyafinwë as well - what did _that_ mean, if there were a Fëanárion here now? If Findekáno had brought a Fëanárion here? What would his brother do if it were so? His father?

What might _Nelyafinwë's_ brothers do, if they heard? Would they hear? Could they? They would have seen the Eagle's approach at the least, if not his landing.

And what did it mean, if Thorondor had helped to bring him?

Nobody had an answer yet, and it seemed to Nerwen that nobody even wished to ask the question, not very loudly. In case the answer was not what they wished.

Beyond that, as well, was the truth that the archers, the scouts, nearly every armed hand in the camp beyond Nolofinwë's personal guard at the least looked to Findekáno as their captain, and many of them considered themselves his satari, and devotedly so - especially the leaders among them. Her cousin had that effect on such of their kind.

The air amongst them was of those who still did not know how to judge an event, but also those who were inclined to wait until they were told and until then would keep their watchful peace. Since it was from their number that the camp guards were chosen, they were also inclined to guide any wandering feet back away from Nerwen's family's tents and not inclined to say anything to anyone about what went on that they saw.

Her brothers would reinforce that - the youngest ones, at any rate. Nornasímo and Aikanáro might well be unhappy still that Findekáno would have gone without asking their help, but that would do little and less to dampen their protectiveness now. Likely the opposite.

Her own arandurë Nerwen trusted completely, or they wouldn't be in her service, but even the youngest of Itarillë's seemed to sense that this was not the time to trade gossip. And between them and the guards, that silenced most of the sources for rumour.

Nerwen didn't know how long it would last and she was not about to depend on it, but for now, it was a boon.

But even so: it oftimes felt as if rumour did not need mouths to make its way out into the air, or ears to catch it up. Sometimes it seemed to pass from mind to mind no matter what anyone did, and she thought some of it did so now.

And yet there was little discourse, little discussion - as yet.

Nerwen wondered how many were struggling, within themselves. A month ago she doubted more than a handful of souls in the encampment would have had much concern for the captive son of Fëanáro, given what lay between the two hosts. Nerwen had even heard some voices take grim satisfaction in his capture, although not anyone who thought she could hear.

There had already been enough cause for it to be known that she had no patience for that kind of malice, and would not fail to address it where she found it. She did not punish - that would be absurd. But few enjoyed being called to account for what they said to her, called forward and asked to explain; it led to their hearing their words as she did, seeing themselves through her eyes, and very few seemed inclined to court such an experience.

But she came to know a great many things people did not think she could hear, or find out about. And she was not foolish enough to think she could wield so much control as to stop people from thinking such things: she could not even stop herself from doing so, not always.

She could only make it clear that whatever thoughts came unbidden, what words people chose to spill into the world, and what actions they chose to take: those she could answer and see answered for.

So she knew there were more than a few who had delighted in the news not just of Fëanáro's death but of his eldest son's capture by the Enemy, and privately crowed about traitors betrayed and deceivers deceived.

And at least some of those might now have difficulty with that recollection.

It was far easier to delight so when all of it was just an idea, a distant thought and nothing real; when you were not confronted with the truth of what it meant, what it looked like, what was left. That made it more difficult, and even as restrained as the rumours had been so far, the news of how badly hurt and ill Nelyafinwë was - even just in body - would have spread.

The sheets and cloths and bandages went to the laundry, after all. Or in some cases to be burned, for she knew there had been at least a few that the máretar had declared unsalvageable, and unfit to be used for papermaking either. Even as restrained as rumour was just now, that much had already spread about the camps. And it could not be hidden that Naicë had left the Asiëmar to her students and helpers.

All of these things would have meaning to those who had crossed the Ice. All of these things would speak of suffering. It was one thing to delight in the suffering of another when it was only an idea; it was another when you had to look at the blood.

It was easier too, she thought, when you did not have to confront and admit the fact that, whatever Nelyafinwë may or may not have done, Nolofinwë's eldest son and heir still clearly loved him, and dearly. Enough to - perhaps, if rumour was true, or so they would think - have arranged his rescue. To have succeeded. To have succeeded with Thorondor's aid.

And think that he might well have heard what others said as well.

Nerwen remembered how, when the news of that captivity had come to them, Findekáno had looked as if someone had struck him through the heart. Others might wish to ignore that, or even pretend they hadn't seen it. And they did so, both. Nerwen could not, and would not have even if she could . . .but others could, and did: assumed it did not matter, if they bothered to let themselves even consider it. Found reasons not to consider it. After all, it could not matter.

Now, given what Findekáno had chosen to attempt and what he had succeeded at, everyone else would have no choice but to remember what she had never forgotten. He had been willing to go to Angamando alone, to risk his own capture and torment, to bring Nelyafinwë back, and what that meant could not be clearer.

For all those who had rejoiced, and chosen to ignore his grief before, that clarity might well be making them uncomfortable.

And as she thought that, Nerwen wondered if Turukáno was still sulking.

She knew she should not think of it so, not even to herself: it was unkind as well as likely unfair, and if nothing else letting such derision show would not help anything. But it still dogged at the edge of her thoughts, perhaps because she was already weary and it was unlikely that any of what was to come would be any easier, nor less aggravating.

Eventually, even, they would have to deal with the other Fëanárioni. Nerwen strongly doubted their own trials had improved her half-cousins any. And even any joy at the return of a brother they likely thought lost would be complicated by the fact that it was none of them that had rescued him. To Makalaurë or either Ambarussa that might not matter; the other three -

Nerwen had never had much more time for any of those three than she had for their father, even in Tirion. Indeed she had often wished that Irissë had _less_ time for Tyelkormo and Curufinwë Atarinkë, although she had held her peace - her cousin only lived up to her amilessë most of the time, and it did no one any good to press her. When pressed, _Norolindwen_ could turn and dig her heels in deeply indeed, and moving her could be like trying to tow the wind.

Not that her cousin knew that Nerwen even knew that name. All three of her full cousins tended to keep them quiet, as did their father. Nerwen's mother's mother had always shaken her head at the the ways that Noldi felt the need to _show_ their knowledge of their children in the names they gave, but Anairë had been adamant.

Sometimes both the lightness and the stubbornness of Nerwen's cousin lead to the same place, were two facets of the same gem: Irissë had dealt with the treachery of the burned ships far better than Findekáno did, had accepted the shifting of Fëanáro's sons from friends and kin to enemy without it seeming to do her much harm - but given half the opportunity Nerwen did not expect Irissë to take long before it would be as if it were forgotten, had never happened.

Because, stubbornly, Irissë would not wish to have anything mar the possibility that the friendship she missed would resume, just as she had not wished to dwell on its disintegration before. Irissë sometimes dealt lightly with the world by way of lying to herself, convincing herself that if she could run fast enough, nothing she did not want to catch up could catch her.

So Irissë would likely forgive easily enough.

Nerwen could only hope that Turukáno would not choose to answer that by being twice as stubborn. Or at least that he would understand that if he were, he would find out how fiercely Findekáno would fight him over this, and learn how immovable his older brother could be - and that he would not like the lesson.

Their mother had not been happy, when she had first heard the nature of her son's love for his half-cousin. Nerwen had been there, for she had been attending Haruni that day. She had watched Anairë leave, her displeasure and frustration with her eldest's - so she thought - thoughtlessness and wilfulness bright in every motion. Nerwen had watched her go, and she had been awaiting the uproar when the fight began.

Instead Anairë had returned some hours later, her thoughts shuttered hard against all, but seeming somewhat shaken. She had said simply, _He will not be moved and I do not wish to discuss it_. And she never had, from that moment.

One or two of the household who had been nigh that day said there had been no fight: that Anairë and Nolofinwë had called their son to speak with them - and he had not gone. Had simply turned to look at both of them, in the hall, and said, _Do you also intend to speak with my brother?_

Had said it quietly, and calmly, and yet those who had seen it spoke of a sudden apprehension - and of Anairë going still, and stopping Nolofinwë from answering before she said, _No_ , in the tone of an admission.

To that, Findekáno had said, _Then you have no need to speak with me_ , and had left without waiting for anything else to be said. And Anairë had again stopped Nolofinwë from answering, or from calling their son back.

Nerwen considered Anairë very wise, in that; considered that she had foreseen what was possible in that moment and what was not, and chosen which course took her and her family to the place she hated least. But where Anairë conceded defeat, her second son would not find a victory.

Nerwen knew her amilessë as well, and it was _Tulcaliel_. That few people knew that of her was simply because Anairë was, most often, very wise in when she truly chose to be immovable. She had given part of that nature to all of her children - but not always the wisdom.

They did not need to have Anairë's sons set against each other. That was the last thing they needed. But for now Nerwen could only hope they would not find themselves there. As to the rest -

She believed Ingoldo, when it came to their own brothers: Irirainwë would wish whatever path led to the least conflict in any case, and while Aikanáro and Nornasímo might harbour resentment towards the sons of Fëanáro in the abstract, in the matter of Nelyafinwë they would be governed far more by what Findekáno so clearly wished and felt the moment they saw it.

They were nearly always thus. Aikanáro would shift his hatred easily enough to another enemy - that was his nature. Indeed, if anything he would be overjoyed that Findekáno could have Nelyafinwë with him again, for he was the only other one who would admit that he felt Findekáno's grief at the separation - and as was her younger brother's way, he had felt it keenly.

As for Nornasímo, even at his most obdurate and impatient, he was thankfully the farthest thing from cruel, and had enough sense to know when private resentments should be put aside.

For herself, Nerwen's own frustration and anger remained diffuse in its target, its cause. With Fëanáro, she was angry still, deeply angry - but Fëanáro was dead. She had little enough time for half of his children even before the slaughter at Alqualondë - but in truth she doubted anyone else would have done any better at withstanding Fëanáro's madness than they had, had those others also been his sons.

Had also had cause to love him as sons would love such a father. Or love their brothers, either, and there at least one could not fault them. Such loves would draw many to things they would not otherwise do.

In truth, Ingoldo's very presence here was all the proof one could wish that affection and obligation would drag the most sensible into what they would never do in their absence - and her own, likely enough, that even those who should know far better could be swept up against wisdom and previous wish.

Fëanáro had held more sway over all of them than should have been possible; Nerwen could very easily imagine how much harder it would be to resist it, when he had shaped you himself all your life, and been given nearly free hand to do so.

For that much, she pitied all seven of them.

In a less kind corner of her thoughts, she doubted that Tyelkormo, Morifinwë or Curufinwë Atarinkë would have disagreed with their father even left their own full freedom, and even together Ambarussar never gave her the sense that they could think far enough ahead to see the consequences of what they did, living wholly in whatever moment they experienced. They were young, and being young were often thoughtless.

But then Aikanáro was still at times the same way, had in past been a great deal more so, and such a fault did not mean one deserved to be dragged along in the mad star's wake. If anything, it meant one deserved better care.

As to what had gone wrong with Fëanáro - that Nerwen did not understand, and even those like Naicë did not seem to have an answer. Something had gone horribly wrong, that was clear, but what and how and why it had taken him so far into madness . . .

And if even the nestandor and even the Ainur could not see its cause or understand how to stop it, how should his sons be expected to? Nerwen thought that unjust.

It left Nerwen with more pity and patience for her cousins than most anyone else, but it still left her with anger and anguish at . . . something.

She did not know what.

And seeing the wreckage now of her eldest cousin did not help, nor did the need to make certain that others saw what she saw, attempting to think of what they would do or think or say before they did it, so that she might have an answer, or have arranged for someone else to give it. That she might shape understanding and action in the directions that would lead to the best for all, often in those who could not have the knowledge needed to see why, to see all that was happening.

With all of that, she found herself with little patience left for Turukáno, justly or unjustly.

And all of _that_ meant that trying to rest like this would be futile, and finding Ingoldo right now would only give her more to tangle herself up in, and so -

\- and so she turned towards the lake.

She did not take the main path, lined with flat stones and carefully maintained. It lead to the main dock, where there would be many people at this hour, and questions, and more attention than she wanted.

Instead, she took one of the lesser, more haphazard paths over to one of the floating docks, a half-hour's walk or so along the shore. The dock, along with several others, had been made to give a landing place where the water's edge did not: here, for example, the narrow dock stretched from the solid ground out through a mess of water-weeds and tangled fallen trees and a few great rocks that hid among the green until they scraped along the hull.

Today, the lake was calm and somewhere above the choking smoke there was likely a clear sky as well. The floating dock moved little enough in the water before she stepped onto it, and then moved only with her steps, not against them. Nerwen left her shoes and her dress on the wood, walked to the end of the dock while she unbound her hair, and dove into the still waters.

It was cold. In truth it was too late in the day and too soon after the snows for this: she would most likely be chilled by the time she made her way out of the water. But she did not care. She needed the waters.

The lake was not the Sea.

Nerwen missed the Sea. That might have made her mother laugh, for Nerwen had always spent so much of her time in Tirion or Valimar or in Nyeretári's halls or anywhere, in truth, _other_ than the shores and waters at Alqualondë. But the absence was different now.

It was one thing to choose not to go to the Sea when it was there, and nothing stood between it and her but how much time she wished to spend on the journey and her own whims; and another, now, to know that unless she were _very very foolish_ and went alone out of her own wistfulness, she would not see it again for a very long time.

So the lake was not the Sea - but it _was_ still water, and deep and clear and clean and sometimes now Nerwen regretted that she could not grow fins as her father had often teased her mother that her mother would do, from all her time in the water, and simply live down here, beneath the water, far away from . . . anything.

A childish impulse, and selfish. And fleeting. After all, Nerwen knew exactly how quickly all would go awry if she were not here, and she was not willing to see that happen.

Yet still. She felt it, for now.

Nerwen swam beneath the water until the last end of her breath before she broke the surface, and then dove down again from there out past the point where the lake-bed dropped abruptly into the deep.

Out here the lake floor was fine sand, the same as the sandbanks they used to make glass, and few reeds and water-plants grew, and so few fishes swam either. There was enough light still to see for a ways, and on her third breath she swam as deeply as she could before simply stopping and letting herself hang there, in the water, and slowly rise to the surface.

It was easier to do this from a ship's deck: you dove from high enough and momentum took you down, much farther than you could swim on one breath and much faster, and then you let yourself float until you had to push for the surface and air. But like everything else, even this, here, was better than nothing would be.

There was no easy way to explain why this helped. But it did. Even here, even without knowing that there would be craft of her mother's people elsewhere on this same water, even without knowing that seen or unseen Uinen's servants drifted in currents, even with the water sweet instead of salt.

It still helped. A little.

Four times she did the same. After the fourth, she was forced to admit that she was indeed cold; by the time she had swum back to the dock she had to exert herself not to shiver. She pulled herself out of the water and wrung the worst of it out of her hair and skimmed it off her body and limbs before she pulled her gown back on, leaving her shoes for now, and sitting back down on the dock.

The linen and she would both dry easily enough, and unlike Irissë she was not so wedded to white in her garments as to make the damp cloth a problem. This dress was a deep saffron, and even damp from her skin it quickly helped her grow warm enough again.

Nerwen began to comb her fingers through her hair, ignoring the pull of the new water-twisted snarls, so that she could at least braid it simply before she went back to the encampment for dry clothing, her combs, and likely someone to help her, given she had let it fall wholly loose.

She became aware of her uncle's presence long before he spoke, or even drew close enough that he was clearly admitting that he was present. She was not inclined to be so indifferent to her surroundings that such as he could even make the choice to come and find her without catching her attention, at least not without great effort on their part. So she knew.

But she did not speak until he saw fit to do so first.

Nerwen loved her uncle a great deal, and thought well of him; if that were not so, she might well have turned back with her own father, gone back to Tirion, or to help her mother and her grandfather restore the Havens.

Atya had asked her to. And the blood on sand and wood so far had been enough to shake her conviction that she could do much to better the darkened world, given she could not stop even that much.

But because Turukáno was resolved, Ingoldo would go; because Ingoldo and Findekáno were resolved, Nornasímo and Aikanáro would go; because their brothers would go, Artaresto would go.

And with all of that, too, had been knowing that if Nolofinwë had no choice but to go on - and he clearly believed he did - and if Atya could not bring himself to do likewise, then she should; that he would need her. He would have Ingoldo either way - but still.

Nerwen had known that, deprived of Atya, her uncle would need her, as well as her eldest brother.

She had been right.

Here and now, Nolofinwë left his escort at the end of the dock and came down to her. When he had drawn close enough that he did not have to raise his voice, he said, "Your brother said you would most likely be here."

Nerwen did not trouble to ask which brother: any one of the four of them would know, although she suspected Irirainwë - she did not expect Ingoldo back in the encampment before sunset and although she did not know for certain, she suspected he had taken the other two with him.

She did not immediately reply, either, but turned enough to look up at him while her fingers kept at work on the sweep of the braid over the top of her head, and waited, letting her aspect turn expectant.

She was in truth more than a little surprised when Nolofinwë sat, pulling off the half boots he wore and settling his feet in the water; and again when the look he gave her seemed half-rueful, with the rue mostly pointed at himself.

But neither of those surprised her as much as when he said, "I wished to give you my thanks, Artanis. For your, ah - " and he seemed to hesitate over the word, before choosing, " - arrangement of matters, last night."

Surprised she might be, but Nerwen knew what he meant. And while with her eldest brother she might play, secure in the knowledge that he would know it was play and she was not truly trying to dissemble, or claiming she had not done all she could to weight the outcome of a moment, here, with her father's brother, she chose not to.

So she inclined her head, acknowledging it, but still did not say anything else. Not yet. Simply continued her braid, finishing the crown and shifting to pull the rest of her hair over her shoulder.

For a moment, her uncle was silent, moving his feet idly through the water. Then he asked, "Has Itarillë spoken to her father yet?" he asked, and Nerwen shook her head.

"She had not when last I saw her," she replied. "But then, I have not heard of where he has been all this day."

Somewhat to her surprise, Nolofinwë's mouth twitched, just slightly. "Currently I believe he is eating. He, too, came down to the water to seek some kind of serenity earlier this morning, I believe, though he took a boat."

Her uncle glanced at her sidelong, as if he were anticipating some amusing reaction from her, and then he said, "He came back without the boat."

Nerwen felt her eyebrows rise and did not attempt to stifle the response. Turukáno maybe did not have the same skill on the water as Ingoldo did - how could he? - but she would hardly have thought he would manage to sink himself on a lake on a calm day, nor be careless enough to take an unsound boat out to begin with.

"He also lost a boot," Nolofinwë continued, "and his cloak, and seems somewhat . . . chastened, although he will not tell me what happened, beyond his capsizing."

Nerwen blinked, her fingers pausing in her braid. Then she looked out at the calm surface of the lake. Then she looked back to her uncle, who seemed quite satisfied with this response.

This time she did not need to say anything. That he might _sink_ a boat, if it were unsound or he unwise, that she might credit. But her brother - indeed, her _brothers_ \- had _built_ these boats to be steady in the water, in recognition that their father's people were not accustomed to watercraft. She did not believe that Turukáno could easily _capsize_ one on a still day.

Some part of this tale must be missing.

"Quite so," her uncle agreed. "I have chosen not to push matters, as he is at least less . . . belligerent than he was this morning, but if Findaráto does ever get the story of what happened out of him, I would certainly love to hear it."

"As would I," Nerwen agreed, still at a loss to think what might have happened, and how it would lead to her cousin being _less_ difficult, instead of _more_ so. Turukáno did not deal easily with embarrassment.

There came another moment of silence that Nerwen allowed to stretch, and then her uncle asked, more quietly, "How bad is it?"

Again, Nerwen did not trouble to pretend she did not know what he meant. She was surprised, a little, that the question was so open and so bald, that her uncle would simply ask and want the answer - surprised, but not unhappy. Far from unhappy.

"Worse than you have seen," she replied, soberly, after considering how best to answer. "Worse than I had seen until now - a great deal worse. Naicë - " Nerwen shrugged. "Who can tell? She will not say. But bad enough yet that she is disturbed, at least, and badly grieved."

The look her uncle gave her was troubled, but there was little enough comfort Nerwen could give to that, not and speak truly. And it was more important that he know than he be comforted.

So she merely went on, "She says she thinks he will live, and his body will most likely heal, and spends much of her time with the face she wears when she knows worse things than she has brought herself to tell me yet, or wants to tell me ever. She might tell you more if you asked her, but - "

Nerwen looked over the water and took a careful breath, thinking over what she knew and how best to distill it, to order it, in order to tell her uncle what he needed to know. Her uncle did her the courtesy of waiting, and of not hiding a certain amount of apprehension.

"There is not a hand's breadth of unbroken skin on him, onóro," she said at last, quietly, speaking to her _uncle_ now more directly than to the leader of their people. The difference mattered, at this time and in this place. "He is so emaciated I am surprised he is alive. And his mind, and his spirit, just now - " she stopped, lifting one hand and then letting it fall.

Nolofinwë stayed silent, and now he did not look at her. He looked at his hands, resting on his own lap; he looked at the water around his feet and then away at the line of trees.

After a moment, Nerwen gave up attempting to find a way to say what she wished that would make sense, fully convey what she wished, and instead chose to tell him, "Many times in Valinor the Maia I would speak to would tell me that I could not imagine what hatred might drive one to do to another, and now I must admit that it seems they were right, for the malice behind what has been done to Nelyafinwë is beyond me and I do not know . . . how to encompass that, onóro."

She sighed, and concluded, "That is how bad it is."

The silence between them then seemed to fully acknowledge what she said, and what she meant; then her uncle sighed.

"I will have to send messages to his brothers," he said, voice grave, and somewhat reluctant.

The thought _jarred_ against Nerwen's mind, as if she were thrown from a running horse, and made her turn to look at him as her mind scrambled to gain balance again. It was true, but -

"Not yet," she said, the words only a little behind her own thoughts, but still: it was something of which she was certain. "I know," she went on, as Nolofinwë looked at her with a slight frown, catching her thought and turning it to words, "I know that there is a risk that the tale might get carried to them and it would be best that not happen before you have sent, but - ai, onóro, háno-atarwa, not yet."

The frown had deepened, and so had the surprise and concern behind it, and Nerwen made some effort to gather her unbalanced thoughts. She sighed, and said, "Do not inflict them on Nelyafinwë yet, if it can be helped. That would be . . . an unkindness."

The braid in her hands was finished, and she sighed again, letting it fall to her lap, as she went on, "I do not think harm of them in this, not . . . by design - but I would not by choice let five of them anywhere near _anyone_ suffering, no matter what the cause, and even Makalaurë . . ." She trailed off, shaking her head. "I do not think guilt and grief would help anything, just now. Nelyafinwë cannot be to them what he has been, yet; I do not know how much he even understands of what is _happening_ yet, and every time he has woken thus far he has had to learn over anew that his captivity is ended. I do not think his brothers should see him yet. I think it would be an unkindness - even a cruelty, and to them as well."

Nolofinwë looked searchingly at her for a moment, and then nodded, slowly. "I had not thought of it so - but I think you are right. I think you are right." He sighed, drawing his hand down his face, and murmured, "Oikúma - that makes things more . . . fraught, but you are right. I will leave it for now."

Then he added, wryly, "Your brother thinks that when I do send to them, it should be by Irissë," and Nerwen almost laughed. She could tell that he both hoped she would disagree - and knew she would not.

And she would not: Nerwen had not yet thought that far ahead, having more than enough things to occupy her mind for the moment, but Ingoldo was right. Irissë would be by far the best choice of emissary in this.

Nerwen wondered if that was why Turukáno had stormed out of this morning's discussions to begin with. There were few things more futile than attempting to keep Irissë away from all threat and harm, and yet he would not stop trying, and Ingoldo suggesting that would most likely have felt like a betrayal on top of all else.

Nerwen often wondered what could have happened in the first years of her cousin's life that had Turukáno both so convinced she needed minding and so convinced that he could achieve it. What happened, that no one spoke of.

She could not help feeling that need would bring her cousins to profound grief one day.

"It would make clear the intent of approach, the significance, and it would present the least risk of some . . . unfortunate outburst," she agreed, thoughtfully, though she kept private _other than myself, and this way would not leave you with Irissë to manage the encampment for the length of the journey there and back._

Or, more likely, pass the bulk of it to Itarillë. Which, Nerwen had to admit, the girl would probably do well enough, unless there were some great crisis, but that "unless" was one that kept a heavy axe in its hand.

And it would not be fair to make niece manage aunt. Or Aikanáro, for that matter. Few people realized that managing Aikanáro could be a challenge, but that was because Nerwen and Ingoldo did it without telling anyone. And Irissë would not be difficult on purpose, but Irissë . . .

There were many things that Irissë did or did not do, Nerwen knew, because she did not relish the embarrassment of explaining to Nerwen _why_ , of having to lay bare her reasons, even if Nerwen would not remonstrate with her over them aloud. It was a silent pattern between them but it shaped their lives, and it was an advantage that Itarillë did not and could not have.

"I thought you would agree with him," Nolofinwë said, resignedly. "Then again, if it should all be delayed, there is perhaps time to make the prospect less - "

"Terrifying?" Nerwen supplied, sweetly, because there was truly only so far she could restrain herself. Nolofinwë was not as foolish on this matter as his son, but that was faint enough praise and more than once even Findekáno had been exasperated enough to demand aloud if his father thought that somehow Irissë was of a different kind than the rest of them, that she was somehow more fragile and frail, and if so, where precisely his father thought that frailty came from.

"Concerning," her uncle concluded, giving her a mildly reproving look that was, truth told, much less effective than her father's. Then again, with Findekáno _and_ Irissë, Nerwen supposed Nolofinwë might well have given up on that a very long time ago, where Atya could have some hope that the look might have some effect.

She made no particular reply, but her feet were dry enough now not to mar her shoes, so she stood. She gave her uncle an inquiring look and he sighed, leaning back on his hands.

"No," he said, to the unspoken question, "I think I, too, will take some time to seek tranquillity in the water." His tone was wry. "It is not as if it is any secret where I am, if I am needed."

"Then I shall leave you to it," Nerwen replied.

There were two of her uncle's guards back by a copse of trees, and so Nerwen made certain she was mostly out of earshot before she let herself burst out laughing.

After the last day and night, she needed it.

_iii._

Rest proved elusive. Findekáno was no longer weary enough that sleep would pull him under and overwhelm him at the first opportunity, and he could not stand the quiet of his own head and what arose from it.

Soon enough after Maitimo had fallen to deep sleep, Irissë had come with two of her aranduri, and taken the watch from Naicë. Findekáno had risen with some intent of . . . he was not even sure, but had run straight into his sister instead and had no clear enough an idea of what he wished to be about to counter her demand that he eat.

Indeed, she nearly pushed him into a chair and then went so far as to put food in his hand and watch him with her best attempt at sternness while he ate it, so he did, though he tasted it little enough.

It was an aggravating distraction to remember to actually eat, not merely sit there with food and drink in his hands, and yet not enough of a distraction to keep his mind full, to keep things he could not do anything about and so did not wish to think on from rolling out of subconscious shadows. By the time he had finished, he was already certain he could not stand to try to rest, not now, and so refused his sister as gently as he could when she tried to insist he do so.

But he acquiesced when she shifted her demand to one that he himself bathe, taking the clothes she had dug out of his chests before the rest of his things were put aside during the night and accepting, reluctantly, her assurance that Maitimo would not wake for hours yet. That he had more than enough time to go and bathe, and then return.

It was then that he was struck by the knowledge that his choice not to make a private bath here might prove a difficulty, but also discovered that his sister and his cousin had reached that mark before him, and had already made plans to remove it.

"You could wait," Irissë said, sweetly, "and rest, and use it - "

But Findekáno cut her off as gently as he could with, " _Enough_ , nésyë," and she subsided, blessedly without taking offense - that he could see - at the warning in the diminutive. Then he took his things and went to the bathhouse himself.

It did not occur to him until it was too late to change his course that he risked encountering . . . .any of his family, really, including his brother, but truthfully his concern was that he would Angaráto, Aikanáro or both. Findaráto would most likely have the kindness to leave him alone, Artaresto would only need commonplaces, and even Turukáno -

At most they might end up having a fight. And while true, it was perhaps _not_ the best idea that they do that in public, still: he honestly could not say that it would do him any harm, and most of those who would be between their tents and the bathhouse would have seen them fight before.

It might even feel like a relief, to have someone to shout at.

But Angaráto, or worse, Aikanáro -

When Findekáno had told his father he knew no one else would go with him, it had been untrue, though not . . . dishonest. It was true enough that no one else would have been of the same mind as he, on the matter; no one else would have agreed it need be done. Neither Angaráto nor even Aikanáro would have shared his reasons.

But if he had asked him, they would have come. They would have kept his secret, and they would have come. That was why he had not told them; and that was why he had not asked. They would have come for his sake, and no other reason, and Findekáno had not wanted that.

He was not at all certain they would understand why. That they would see all of this as he saw it. He owed them explanations, probably, he owed them . . . something, any number of things, but now, just now -

Findekáno did not feel in fit state to give any of it. He did not feel in fit state to be who his cousins would need him to be, but nor did he feel able to shoulder the guilt if either saw him, and he avoided them.

All of which meant he should have thought more carefully before he left. Ascertained where they were in the encampment, at least. And he had not.

Luck was with him enough, though, that neither of them was there, nor did he meet them on his way. With further luck he did not recognize anyone in particular out of the handful of others in the bathhouse, and that handful gave him courteous distance of the kind that, at other times, he would deliberately close.

He did not today. Today he would gratefully take the distant deference granted, and be grateful as well that he did not know any of those there by name, nor even recognized any faces as names he should know but had misplaced - worthies or those skilled enough their work brought them near Atar these days, or anyone else.

He was, he supposed he had to admit, still very weary. It was simply that he could not rest yet. There were still too many things he did not want to think.

It was with some relief that when one of his sister's aranduri met him near his tent, Findekáno discovered that now, at least, he could remember her name - Centawen - which meant he could thank her when, with an expression remarkably like one his sister also often wore, she took the previous night's clothing from him to take to the launderers.

They did need to go. After he had bathed and dressed, Findekáno had been forced to see somewhat ruefully where his rough ablutions the night before had _not_ been enough to wholly clean away blood, soot and dirt, and so where his skin had left all three on the clothing that had then been clean. He could have taken them himself, but he suspected Centawen was glad of the excuse to absent herself from the tent.

Not for the first time, in fact, Findekáno considered that it was very likely that his sister's aranduri, and Itarillë's, both wished that their mistresses had never stepped in to take up part of Naicë's burden. He could not say with Nerwen's, for even if they disliked the duties just as much they would not deign to let anyone see it; and he had not been close enough to Elenwë while she lived to know her aranduri well enough to tell. But those who answered to his sister and his niece -

Findekáno did not think any of them liked the duties of healing, or better to say they did not like being so close to injury and suffering, and he could not blame them. If none of them disliked it enough for it to be their reason to ask for release from service, that did not mean they had not all been relieved that after reaching Endórë, Naicë had been able to take time to train those who _wished_ to learn her craft, and it had fallen to Findekáno's kinswomen less. Until now.

The life of the encampment continued around them, after all, including all the risks of injury that Endórë offered - both from mischance, and from overuse, and sometimes, it seemed, with new ways of coming to harm to be discovered every day.

After all less than a month ago one of the scouts had the misfortune of discovering a new kind of kelvar, ones that seemed somewhat like to bees - except sleeker, larger, far more aggressive, able to sting over and over again without taking harm to themselves, and who made no honey.

But those who studied and served under Naicë by choice would, at the moment, be taking more of the weight of those every-day occurrences, leaving more to be done - perhaps - by those who would also perhaps not ever choose to do it, if those to whom they were in service did not insist on seeing healing as part of their duty.

Findekáno did not know what would come of that insistence as time went by. In Tirion, and in Valinor, there had been Estë and the Maiar who served her: all of those among the Eldar who chose to study healing and its work were like Naicë, those who wished to know for their own curiosity and understanding.

Then, on the Ice, as injury and cold and hunger began to take their toll, Naicë had been so often their saviour, and Findekáno often felt that Nerwen and Elenwë had aligned themselves with her as much to drag the rest of the host forward, out of shock and despair, as anything else. And Itarillë had followed her mother, and Nerwen had pulled Irissë with her.

And so it had shaken out that the daughters of Finwë's house held authority absolute over matters of healing and they, in turn, deferred to Naicë's knowledge and direction, and - Findekáno sometimes thought - by the time his father could think beyond gratitude that _someone_ was making these things _work_ . . . it had become The Way Things Were, and changing it would turn everything to disarray.

And the rules of Estë's isle presided over all places of healing and - because his thoughts circled a fixed point like a foal on a line - meant Findekáno had been saved from either saying or doing anything he would now regret greatly, by Itarillë's invocation of those same rules.

But until then, it had seemed almost as if his kinswomen would move out of that realm again. And yet.

Findekáno had no more than stepped into his own tent before Irissë demanded she allow him settle his hair, and for a moment he had to restrain himself from snapping at her, because of all the things he cared about now, her scruples on the details of his appearance were least among them. But he bit his tongue: their mother's shaping ran deeply, and Irissë and Turukáno both shared with their mother the way she showed care and worry, and Findekáno knew all three of them well enough to know what it looked like.

That it was equally wearing from all three of them sometimes did not change the love that drove it, and it was worth restraining his ire over such a small and petty thing.

So instead Findekáno let her make him sit and braid his hair into more intricate and secure shapes than he could have been bothered, before escaping her concern to interfere with the crafters who were building the bathing tent.

He had to admit it was interference. Indeed it was exactly the kind of thing the rest of his kin too-often did and most of the time he made a great effort _not_ to do. Most of the time he thought it was pointless at best, and perhaps even insulting to those who plied their craft at worst, in its implication that he - or his kin - knew their work better than they did. Thus most of the time, Findekáno took himself away to either something he wished to do, or something that did in fact need _him_ to do it.

With the bathing tent, he failed at this, and worse he knew he was doing so as he did it, and yet could not bring himself to stop.

If he stopped, he would have to think. He still did not want that.

So instead he busied himself in fussing about the gravel brought for the ground, and the channel made to drain the any overflow of water away from the tent - and anyone else's - and the wooden lattice and the reed mats over top, and every other detail.

The crafters for their part were very patient with him, and patient with his interference, for all it was entirely possible they could have done their task faster without him.

Irissë made him eat again, when they had gone and he returned to his tent to be certain that Maitimo still slept. He finished the stew she pressed on him just in time for Naicë to return - and to fix him with a long and level look.

It was one thing to fend off his sister; it was even perhaps one thing to fend off Nerwen, had she been the one here. But Naicë pinned him in place with her gaze and then said, very simply, "You may lie down and rest with or without your own potion for sleep, Nolofinwion, but you _will_ lie down and rest, for you are no use to me later when I may need you if you are about to collapse."

Findekáno attempted to return her stare, but knew that he failed. "You are wielding guilt," he accused, but to no particular avail.

"I am," she agreed. "Shall I continue? I _can_ strike harder if I must, child."

And in the face of that, Findekáno abandoned the argument. He had, at least, maybe done enough that if he did lie down, he would sleep.

_iv._

Ingoldo found his sister in his tent when he returned to the encampment, somewhere just before sunset. He was not entirely surprised at it; nor was he unhappy. He had wished to speak to her, and this made it simpler and easier, and drew no other attention.

Nerwen sat at his desk, writing something out on the scraps of paper she used to send orders around the encampments with the youngest of her aranduri, Morinén, sitting patiently by, two such missives already in her hands. It was not yet dark enough to need lamps even under cover, although it would be soon, so the light was the red-gold tinge of sunset through canvas. It tinted Nerwen's hair nearly to copper, and did the same to the cream-coloured dress her arandurë wore, and if Ingoldo had been less weary he might have appreciated the beauty more.

He doubted Nerwen had come to the tent much before he had: Morinén had the look of one who had spent at least an hour following his sister while she imitated a whirlwind, although the girl also seemed up to the challenge. But the wind had begun to rise towards the end of late afternoon, and you could see it in the disarray of their hair.

Well, Morinén's; on second examination, Nerwen's looked as if she had gone swimming and had not, as yet, taken time to do anything else with it beyond complex enough braiding that it did not tire her neck. It still fell only to her hips, from when she had reluctantly cut it all the way to the middle of her back while crossing the ice, and Ingoldo often wondered if she would insist on letting it grow to the ground again.

Likely. But perhaps not.

He was weary enough that the thought let memory cross his mind as well, and he had to hide a smile at the image of his sister, younger even than Morinén now, giving their mother a look of aggravated horror at her mild suggestion that Nerwen did not need to let her hair grow as long as it possibly could, and it would be easier to manage if she did not.

His little sister had first learned patience because their mother declared that Nerwen had either to learn to sit still and let it be braided and secured, or it would be cut short.

As that thought flitted across his mind, Nerwen handed the last scrap of paper to Morinén and then nodded to her; the girl made a very brief curtsey to Ingoldo and then darted out of the tent into the sunset.

There was a subtle shift to his sister once they were alone - a softening of her posture, and a sense of her own weariness - though, too, a sense of amusement barely veiled, and a softening of the anxiety that had come from her like the hum of a tuning-rod the night before. That was itself somewhat comforting; it meant things had likely not gone awry while he was gone, and that Nelyafinwë continued to improve at least a little.

"It will likely rain tonight," he said, as he divested himself of his knife-belt and other small burdens of his day. There were not a great many.

"Good," his little sister replied. "It will finish washing the air clean. Have you seen Turukáno yet?" The question was direct, but did not seem urgent, and Ingoldo paused halfway through unlacing his vest to give her a curious look, for the lightly veiled amusement had bubbled to the surface with the question.

"No," he said, frowning, "though I was told he had been seen - "

Kindler, he hoped something hadn't gone wrong there, though no one seemed agitated enough for it to be so, and on a closer look, Nerwen seemed more brimming with repressed anticipation than concern.

"His father spoke to me," she said, and that impression only grew. "Turukáno did come back, but after he capsized a boat on the lake."

Ingoldo stopped in the middle of removing the vest and stared at her. The wind had not arisen until _late_ in the day and even now, it would be barely enough to create waves, let alone give them white crests.

"Capsized," he repeated, disbelieving. " _Turukáno_. Today. I do not believe that." He tossed the vest over the chair nearest his bed, but still frowned.

Nerwen looked oddly satisfied at the response, and said merely, "That is what Turukáno has said, and all he has said. No one has pressed him as yet, of course."

Ingoldo sat in the chair and began to unwind the laces of his boots, of a mind to change them for something much lighter to go to the baths with. He frowned, still, but no matter how he turned it about in his head that made no sense.

"Why would he say that?" he demanded, as much of the air as of his sister, for he doubted she knew.

And indeed she replied, "I cannot imagine, and nor can his father." Her eyes were bright, and she clearly delighted as Ingoldo's reaction, though he could not blame her. "Nolofinwë said he seemed chastened."

Ingoldo pulled one boot off and frowned at it, in proxy for frowning at anything that might be able to solve his puzzlement. "Even if he did something so absurd as to tip a boat on that water," he said, flatly, "I cannot see how that would lead to . . . _chastened_."

Embarrassed, yes, but Turukáno and embarrassment did not lead in that direction. To put it mildly. Turukáno was at his angriest when he was embarrassed.

"You see why his father is puzzled," Nerwen replied. "He has said that should you ever manage to extract the tale from Turukáno, he would be curious to know it."

Ingoldo snorted, pulling the other boot off. "I intend to get it out of him," he told her, "if only to explain what in the name of Ulmo's little fishes he _did_. A _child_ would have difficulty tipping one of our boats on that lake."

That had been a deliberate choice he made when leading their building. One could not depend on his father's people having any skill in water-craft, and he had wished to make learning as simple - and as unlikely to end in any drownings - as possible.

And he had done so.

That Turukáno could lose mastery of one of those boats without doing something extremely foolish was a step or two beyond easy belief, and if he had done something that foolish then Ingoldo was going to be annoyed with him. Anger and frustration at the matters that lay before one was a poor excuse for that kind of wilful carelessness.

Ingoldo found himself hoping for some other explanation.

He sighed, and sat up for a moment. "Aught else I should know of the day?" he asked, for he could not avoid the question, though he somewhat feared the answer.

Nerwen made an ambivalent gesture, and then leaned her head on her hand.

"Findekáno emerged to speak with his father," she said, "and nobody heard any shouting, not even the closest guards. Irissë managed to make Findekáno bathe, eat and rest after that. Most things have remained calm, including, it seems, our father's brother."

Ingoldo nodded, glad that what he had seen this morning had continued.

Nolofinwë had seemed to have regained a certain amount of . . . perspective, perhaps because with sleep and time he had managed to settle into the knowledge that however mad and foolish Findekáno's act had been, it had done him no actual harm. That had been a relief, even this morning, and even as it had become clear Turukáno had gained no such perspective at all.

The thought was regretful, rather than resentful: Ingoldo knew better than anyone except perhaps Itarillë - and even there - _why_ Turukáno would respond so to what had happened, and Ingoldo suspected he had more patience and sympathy for his friend than even Turukáno's own daughter did, on this matter. That he disagreed with the conclusions it led his friend to make did not lessen that sympathy, or even the patience.

At the same time, the patience and sympathy did not make Turukáno less wrong.

Nerwen sighed, interrupting the thought and said, "Nelyafinwë woke, once - little better than before. I told our uncle that it would be far kinder to wait, if it is at all possible we can, before we send word to his brothers."

"I have already given orders to make as certain as possible that no one is passing between the camps," Ingoldo told her, and added, shifting to a gentle teasing, "and that you _in particular_ will be displeased at idle gossip, especially it spreading that far."

It amused him, privately, that such would be so effective a threat. As far as he knew, Nerwen had never _done_ anything untoward to anyone. Ever, in fact. Since she grew to her full height he could not think of anyone she had even shouted at.

And yet in some ways she commanded more fear than those who gave far more evident cause.

" _Hah_ \- " Nerwen smiled, a slightly bitter smile. "I will be, if it happens - likely more than they can fathom."

He might have moved on to other things with that, but there was something in how she had spoken about it being kinder to wait that tugged at him, so Ingoldo then gave her a long look with a question in it, and waited until she decided whether to answer.

Sometimes she would not, and it was futility in itself to attempt to force Nerwen to tell you something she did not wish to tell you. But it was most often still worth asking, if you accepted that truth.

In the end, she sighed again and said, "Naicë has . . . reminded me," and it seemed as if she were choosing her words very carefully, as if there were some she did not wish to have to speak, "that our Enemy's chief lieutenant is himself great - perhaps greatest - among the Maia, and that his skills and powers lie particularly in taking shapes, and weaving phantoms, and using shadows."

She took a careful breath and went on, "Not least his own shape and image, changing them at will. And that his chief entertainment is already known to be cruelty, and torment, even to no purpose save his own amusement."

His sister had the look of one who hopes that what they have said will be enough, and that they will not have to speak more clearly, will not have to say aloud precisely what they mean; since Nerwen seldom wore such a look, Ingoldo turned what she said over for a moment, trying to grasp her point and how it might touch on Nelyafinwë and his brothers and when they should or should not be told -

And then he did, all of a disquieting, unhappy sudden, and felt himself take in a short, sharp breath, even as she relaxed a little, clearly relieved that she would not have to speak more clearly.

He did not blame her for that. The thoughts themselves were . . . they were of the kind that made one feel defiled even to have them; having to shape them into words that would not be lies even of omission was . . . unpleasant.

He stood, out of the pointless impulse to movement that could come from having to think of such things, as if the body itself wished so much to deny that such a thing could be so, or at least to undo it at once, that it could not abide stillness.

At a loss for anything else to do, Ingoldo took the moment to find clean clothing out of one of the chests at the foot of his bed.

When he turned back, Nerwen had leaned her cheek on her fist, her elbow resting on his desk, and her look had turned inward for a moment, and it was at least a small anodyne to recall that this was not a posture she would allow herself with any other witness. Only those she trusted very much indeed.

Ingoldo began, "And he - " and then stopped, for whatever he had meant to ask, the words fell apart, and he ended with a somewhat useless gesture of his hand, trying to indicate all that he was not saying. Did not wish to say, both for the same reasons she had not wished to speak more clearly, and also because in some ways, Ingoldo did not wish for Nelyafinwë to have to have them spoken aloud. Even if he would never know.

A strange feeling, maybe, but it was strong just now.

Fortunately, perhaps, Nerwen was either once again remarkably good at interpreting such things, or she merely wanted to share what she knew enough that it did not matter. She said, "Thus far both times Nelyafinwë has woken he has at first clearly believed he was still captive," her voice quiet. "Both times so far, Findekáno has been able to convince him otherwise, although Irissë tells me this morning it took some time and no little care. Earlier this evening it was easier, I think. After that, it's as if he . . . "

She trailed off for a moment, and shook her head, sitting up and tapping her fingers idly on the desk. "I do not know, not truly - as if knowing that, believing that, exhausted him in and of itself. Naicë has had Findekáno convince him to eat and drink the stuff she makes for the badly injured or ill, and then so far both times has given him draughts against the pain that also make him sleep. She says it is better so, for now, given the state of body and mind. What will come of it in future I do not know - how long that can continue . . ." She shook her head as she trailed off.

It could not be very long - Ingoldo knew that much, from what his sister had told him before, with other wounded charges she had helped. For a little while, those in great pain took great benefit from such rest - but only a little while. Long enough and it became its own sickness.

"She has told Findekáno what she told you?" Ingoldo asked, quietly, and Nerwen nodded.

"Some of it, at least," she said. "Enough that he knows why, at least in the first awaking from dreams and sleep, Nelyafinwë might think as he does. How much of it Findekáno truly understands, or has the space in his mind to encompass, right now - I do not know. When I left to arrange the addition of a bathing tent to his, he knelt beside the bed and stared into nowhere, still looking like someone cut his insides out."

The last words were a touch wry, and she gave Ingoldo a knowing look. "I will have you know that all of you make the spectre of love a fearful thing indeed."

Ingoldo laughed, softly, although there was rue in it too, and she would know why. He bent down and kissed the top of her head, and said, "And yet still I have never met anyone who seems to have had much choice in the matter. Only what they did after it happened."

"Yes," Nerwen agreed, wryly. "That may be the most fearful part of it. That is all of today, at any rate: all that needs mentioning."

"Do you intend to wash the lake out of your hair?" he asked, and she looked aloof, at least in jest.

"Privately, yes," she retorted, and then added, "and if you do get the story out of Turukáno - "

"Oh," he interjected, "believe me, I intend to."

" - then I do want to hear it," she told him. "Very much."

Nerwen left soon after to seek some kind of refreshment, and an hour or so later Ingoldo found Turukáno in his tent, after a brief dance where it seemed everywhere he looked, Turukáno had just departed.

He might have suspected his friend of doing it on purpose, except that the path also seemed intuitive: from bathhouse to the matanesse to Irissë's tent - where Irissë seemed engrossed in the complex ritual of using Itarillë to test ideas for braiding - to, finally, Turukáno's own tent. So it was more likely a somewhat amusing matter of timing.

However, that Itarillë had been in Irissë's tent and willing to be immobilized enough for Irissë to play with her hair did at least support Nerwen's claim that Turukáno was in better temper, or at least a more reasonable frame of mind, and all the more so that his visit did not appear to have left either his sister or his daughter in any dismay. Ingoldo left them feeling a little more at ease with what he would find, when he did run Turukáno to earth.

By then it was dark enough that the lamp hung from the pole outside the door was lit, although more light spilled from the door-curtain pulled back and tied open, leaving its occupant just visible from time to time within. The open doorway was an unspoken invitation, and Ingoldo took it.

He did pause in the doorway to say, "I am told you sank one of my boats," because he was not quite able to restrain himself, given the look he expected to earn him from his friend.

And it did so. Turukáno paused in the midst of lifting his sword from the weapons rack to give Ingoldo something just short of a glare that also mingled resignation, feigned irritation and repressed embarrassment. He also sighed.

"I knew you would see it that way," he said, with more feigned irritation, completing the motion and lifting the sheathed weapon. "And - likely I owe you some apology anyway."

"For my boat?" Ingoldo pressed, although he doubted it, recognizing the dance as something Turukáno did when he had to speak of something he found uncomfortable.

In truth most of Turukáno's anger and discomfort was for himself, and arose from being unhappy that he himself had erred, or done something he now saw as erring. Ingoldo had often felt somewhat paradoxically that if his friend could relax, and expect a little less of himself, he might actually achieve more - or at least achieve more or less the same, but without becoming trapped in the mire of this discomfort and humiliation at past imperfections.

He had not, however, yet come up with a way to say this that he thought Turukáno would hear. Someday, maybe.

"No," Turukáno replied, with a sigh. "Not for the boat. Come in, close that, it will be a long enough tale you might as well sit down."

He gestured to the table where the cloth and jar of wax polish were already laid out, emblems of a need to do something useful with his hands that required little of his mind.

It was not _entirely_ without import that he had chosen to care for this blade, out of this mood. It spoke something to Ingoldo of what weighed on Turukáno's mind, whether he knew it or not. It spoke of both needing comfort, and of guilt: the need to make certain the sword was ready, and also the need to clean it, perhaps more often than simple metal required, as if something unseen could stain.

Ingoldo undid the ties and let the tent door fall shut behind him, though he left the lamp lit: it was _unlikely_ anyone would think it a good idea to come close in an attempt to overhear and less likely that they would have chance to do so before one of the night-guards directed them away, but if they did, the angle and change of the shadows would be a signal.

"It had best be," he said, meaning the tale. "I would put any child old enough to run ten yards without falling over in one of those boats and expect the boat come back with barely any water in the bilges." He sat at the table, expectantly.

Turukáno gave him another look composed of many things, but Ingoldo noted that a large part of it was still embarrassment and of a kind that shaded into rue, so that Ingoldo began to see how _chastened_ might be the word that sprang to mind, though still not how the feeling could arise.

"Not," Turukáno said, with a kind of resignation as he too sat down, "if someone of particular strength took hold of the side and pulled it under."

He set the unsheathed blade on the table as Ingoldo stared at him for a long moment, until he gave up and said, "No, I cannot make sense of that much alone. You may as well begin at the beginning."

Turukáno sighed and briefly rubbed his brow, another sign of embarrassment in him. "After speaking with my father this morning, I went to the lake," he began, in the tones of someone wishing to get past an unpleasant chore.

Ingoldo stayed silent: he remembered, and remembered thinking at the time that it was probably wise. He himself had claimed the scouting errand and arrangement, for it would inevitably cross paths with his younger brothers - and Aikanáro and Turukáno, when the former was anxious and unsettled and latter was angry with his brother, was not a mixture it was wise to allow.

That left either daily matters that could wait, or something deeply unwise - like attempting to talk to Itarillë - to occupy Turukáno, and given that, solitude on the water seemed to Ingoldo a much wiser plan.

That morning's conference had not been a fight, as such; it had barely even managed an argument. But that was mostly because it could be very difficult to argue with Nolofinwë when he had already made a firm decision; in could be like punching at water, so that even if you managed to strike, it did not matter much.

There were ways to manage it. Ingoldo had learned most of them watching either his father arguing with Nolofinwë, or indeed watching his mother handle his father. But it took precision, and self-control, and Turukáno struggled with it when he felt strongly and those feelings were at odds with his father's - and moreover Turukáno knew he struggled with it, and that did not help.

Ingoldo still did not know how to interpret Nolofinwë's change of heart and mood, and how quickly it had come over the course of the night. When Ingoldo had left them to find his sister and then to find calm himself by the water, father and son had been alike in their attitude, and he had only just managed to feat of making practical truths - that this gave a great advantage in managing Nelyafinwë's brothers; that Findekáno was clearly ready to die and who knew what else over this matter, and neither of them wished to find that edge; and that Naicë _and_ their own kinswomen had clearly staked their position, and that conflict could only poison the wellbeing of the host - matter more than the anger and frustration both of them felt.

Then, over the course of the night, Nolofinwë seemed to change entirely; where the night before he had grudgingly admitted those truths, now he seemed not only to grasp them but in truth to accept them, even be grateful for them. If there was still a rueful exasperation when he spoke of what Findekáno had done it was only that, with any anger seeming spent or released into the night.

The night had seemed to leave Nolofinwë ready to accept that what Findekáno had done, while reckless, would be of great benefit to them all - and that beyond that, Findekáno having done it might not only be understandable, but in truth natural, and something that should have been expected.

This morning, that much had still been beyond Turukáno; he had still been mired in the furious knowledge that his brother had nearly gotten himself killed, or far worse, for the sake of someone Turukáno held complicit in the death of his wife - and that worse still, Findekáno had brought Nelyafinwë here, and here Nelyafinwë received care, and shelter. It was not surprising; Ingoldo had expected nothing less, indeed had expected to find _both_ of them, father and son, alike.

He had been grateful not to - but also unsurprised to watch Turukáno's throttled anger grow, venting only once or twice into words, until he had declared his presence clearly unnecessary and left. If anything, Ingoldo had been grateful he _had_ left, rather than continuing there until some explosion resulted that it would be more difficult to undo - and that would be more likely to be overheard.

So Ingoldo had been happy enough to leave Turukáno to the lake until he could think more clearly.

"I went along the eastern edge, far enough away from any others I could see for solitude," Turukáno went on, and took a small pad of felt and some of the polish on it, "and I sat for some time. I was . . . very angry. I will not tire you with my reasons, málo, I know that you know them, and I also . . . "

Turukáno sighed, the way he did when he did not wish to say what came next, but felt compelled to, so that the words would inevitably come out stiffly - and did: "I know that you know I cannot adequately defend them," Turukáno said quietly, "and that if I were to attempt it I would quickly find myself saying things I . . . know to be . . . unfortunate. I know you know that, and that at the time I would not be willing to admit it even to myself, let alone hear you say it, and so I was . . . very angry, and sitting alone in a boat in the lake, a little like a child in a tantrum."

Ingoldo said nothing, judged that there was nothing to say that would help matters, and so only waited, attentive.

Then Turukáno gave him a sideways look and said, "Some time ago, you mentioned that your mother often went alone to the water's edge and told the sea her frustrations."

Ingoldo blinked, a little surprised by the diversion, but gestured assent. Amillë had done that. She had always said it was wiser than keeping them silent, but that the sea was vast enough to take all such things, fair or unfair, just or unjust, wise or unwise, and spin them out until they could do no harm - and so, having given the water the frustration, she could return to whatever had given it rise with more wisdom and less resentment.

Still giving him the sideways look, Turukáno asked, "Do you do likewise?"

" . . . sometimes," Ingoldo allowed, not certain where the question led, though somewhat relieved when Turukáno merely sighed a little again, drawing the felt along the blade.

"Did you last night?" he asked, though now he seemed to be already certain of the answer.

"I may have," Ingoldo also allowed, because he had, after he had left Nerwen to rest. "Though I can tell you that no one heard me."

No one had: it had been late, he had asked the shore-watchers to go away and leave him be, and since he had been more grieved and tired than angry he had not spoken very loud.

Mostly, he had wanted to admit aloud how much he wished he were wiser, more clever, more . . . something, whatever it was that would let him make any of this easier, safer - make them, any of them, any of all the people here, less -

He did not know. Less broken; less frightened. It was what he had wanted for some time now and it felt childish and pointless to admit. But the water did not care if he were childish, even if this lake were not the sea. It was still deep water, and it could still take a little of his useless thoughts and spin them out.

Turukáno's mouth twitched and he looked down. "No one on the shore, no. Indeed, no one of our own kind."

Ingoldo looked at him with brows raised, and waited, while Turukáno meticulously spread the polish along the blade for a moment.

Then Turukáno said, "I sat for some time. And then I was in the water. Because the boat had been turned over and then dragged deep under the water, and I with it."

His words were precise, and without inflection, something that in Turukáno spoke of deep discomfort with what he said; yet all that Ingoldo could do was wait for him to speak more words, in the hope that one of them would make sense of what he had just said.

Still seeming to pay close attention to the movement of felt and polish along blade, Turukáno went on, "Deep under the _still_ , calm water."

" - are you saying that _Herisivenén_ tried to drown you?" Ingoldo asked, for the weight on "still" seemed . . . significant, as did the rueful thread of amusement in Turukáno's voice. Still, it seemed . . . unlikely, to say the least. That Uinen would be _here,_ and that _-_

"No," Turukáno replied, ruefulness now clear. "I am not saying she tried to _drown_ me. Though had she wished to I am sure I would be drowned. I could not find the surface, no matter what I did, but I did not feel any lack or desperation for air - though that lake is cold, more than ten feet below the surface, in the middle."

For a moment, Ingoldo only stared at his friend, trying to encompass this. "I suppose," he said slowly, "that the lake is a wide water. But I thought it was - "

Ingoldo trailed off. _Forbidden_ , to begin with. Forbidden by Manwë to give aid to the Noldor, or even to come to Endórë, for if they were to come then the Enemy -

"It seems Ulmo does not care a great deal what is and is not forbidden," Turukáno said, wryly, clearly hearing what Ingoldo did not speak aloud. "What may or may not begin a war that might break Endórë, yes, that is why they are not . . . openly here, why they only walk in their domains in secret, or so it seemed that she told me."

He made a slightly helpless gesture at that, with the hand that held the cleaning-felt, and Ingoldo nodded, feeling a swell of sympathy. Uinen did not always care to _speak_ , especially not in the water, and though she could and would give your mind knowledge of what she meant sometimes it was . . . not the easiest thing to grasp and then turn into words afterwards.

You understood what she wished you to understand, but that did not mean it was an easy understanding to share with another.

Turukáno gave up pretending at his task and put down the felt, leaning back in his chair and raking fingers through his hair for a moment before saying, wryly, "Manwë may be regent of Arda but I find myself now wondering how much mind those under the waters of the world pay to such things."

As he considered that, Ingoldo nodded; the thought was in harmony with what he knew, from his mother's father. Haru had said once that in the ocean were depths none but Ulmo and his Maia had ever seen, and what secrets there lay there not even Mandos knew. The Lord of Waters and his folk did not openly flout Manwë's declarations or commands; they were not . . . in conflict with one another, and indeed it could not be argued that the love between the Lords of Water and Air was not great and profound.

But Ingoldo found that it . . . would not _surprise_ him greatly to find some unspoken accord that, perhaps, Ulmo would not be _seen_ to be defiant to Manwë's commands and, in return, there might be places where the Regent of Arda did not look too closely.

"I do not know why she was here," Turukáno said, "for she did not explain, and ten feet below the surface I was not going to demand much." His voice was still wry. "I am certain she did not come to Endórë or . . . turn her mind here, or whatever it was she was doing, simply because of me, there is that much, but what else there might be there - I do not know, and I suppose it does not matter. For whatever reason she was here, she _was here_ , and I and my anger had strayed across her knowledge."

For a moment he paused, looking as if through the table and as if carefully choosing his words, before taking a careful breath and meeting Ingoldo's gaze to say, "The Lady of Still Waters was . . . exasperated with me," with a rueful, self-mocking twist to his mouth. "And right to be, I think, though of course I was indignant to begin with."

Ingoldo said nothing, although if there were anything more futile than being indignant or outraged at Uinen Herisivenén he could not think of it.

Ossë, one could not trust: every mariner knew that. There was no malice in him, very far from it, but his nature was that of the weather on the water, of storms and stillnesses in equal measure, and he was changeable, and even where he loved he sometimes forgot how fragile the Children of Iluvátar were. Or how fragile anything else was, either, kelvar, olvar, earth and stone alike. And his remorse afterward did little to bring a ship back from splinters, or a forest back from wreckage, or anything else one of his great storms could unleash.

But that one could trust Uinen did not make her _safe_. You could trust her because she was not changeable, was the mirror image of her spouse - but you could also trust a fire to burn. Still waters were not safe. A riptide looked still; two ships too close on still water would batter each other to pieces, if their pilots were not careful. Deep currents gave no sign on the surface.

One might as well be indignant at a rock as at the Lady.

And indeed Turukáno went on, "My outrage did not impress her."

Then he looked away as if bracing himself before saying, "She asked me if I thought any Noldo should be sitting so arrogantly on any water, anywhere, with such a simple and unforgiving idea of self-righteous justice in his head."

" - ah," Ingoldo said, and could think of nothing else to say.

He knew Uinen was still angry about Alqualondë; she likely would be for . . . a very long time. If she had not been forbidden to strike, he doubted any who struck a blow at the Havens would be safe anywhere but a desert - and even there, only perhaps. The grief that had wrecked so many of the ships as it was, without crossing Manwë's command - that had not been helpless, or thoughtless, or without intent.

"And then in case I missed the point," Turukáno went on, and for a moment even the wry rueful edge slipped away and there was only a sober quiet that, like many still things, probably ran frighteningly deep, "she asked if I wished to know the names of the widows and half-orphans I had made, or those of the fathers they mourned - and if I wished to find out how the Ice compared to what one of her kind could do to one of ours if they wished, and no one greater than they prevented them."

Ingoldo still could not think of anything to say. He could not deny that the questions were just - indeed, with what Nerwen had said only a little while gone now, the last might be the one that struck hardest, though Turukáno could not know that. But the others were also just.

Not kind. But just.

The demand would have been . . . harder, too, in her own waters, spoken in the mind instead of the ear.

Turukáno made a small gesture, a motion towards a shrug that said a great deal that words would have difficulty shaping. "I declined," he said quietly, "for I chose to take the point instead. And that is where I owe you an apology, although - " and here he smiled crookedly, " - I suspect you are about to deny it."

Ingoldo, caught in the midst of drawing breath to do precisely that, stopped, and closed his mouth. Turukáno shook his head in fond but deep exasperation.

"Of course you were," he said, with a sigh.

"We have said all we need about that, Turut," Ingoldo demurred, falling back on the childhood name in the hopes that it would convey what he wished.

It did no good to any to dwell on Alqualondë. Less now than ever before, given that the one whose madness and malice led them there was dead and beyond any revenge or justice besides that in Mandos and perhaps after the ending of all things. It could not be undone; there was nothing even that could be offered in recompense. Not from here; not now.

"Do you ever tire of being reasonable, thoughtful and forgiving?" Turukáno demanded, with asperity that was almost entirely in jest - but only almost, though he took the opportunity as well to shake off the stilted, anguished moment. Ingoldo was happy enough to follow him in that much.

"No," he retorted. "Because whenever I cease my best efforts to be, matters end up in a mess that I invariably hate - _much_ more than I disliked the effort before it. It may be miserable work, but it ends up being better than the alternative. And if nothing else, Herisivenén has never dragged me halfway down a freezing lake to instruct me, so I can count myself ahead there."

In truth he regretted that last comment: though it was true it was petty, and Ingoldo felt it made something of a lie of Turukáno's half-accusation. But Turukáno only looked to be suppressing a smile, shaking his head a little.

"One day, it will get you into trouble, málo," he said. "And _yes_ , I mean more trouble than this." And he made a gesture to encompass the encampment, the very fact of being here, and all that it entailed.

"That may be," Ingoldo allowed. "But I would still probably like whatever the alternative might be even less, so here I am."

He hesitated, then because the thought gnawed at him a little, added, "And while I am certain Lady Uinen has many ways of learning anything she wishes, if it was that I - "

"Ingoldo," Turukáno interrupted, in a tone of pained patience, "if you ask my pardon for my being dragged into the lake over my own sulking, I may throw something at you, and it will likely be heavy."

Which did not leave Ingoldo any way to finish what he had meant to say, so he stopped, and instead after a moment tried, "I am grateful you could make peace with this. And your brother will be, as well."

"My brother," Turukáno replied, with some acid and so clearly still feeling some sting of the fear from Findekáno's absence, "is a damned _fool_."

And it was perhaps the best way to bely the charge of _thoughtful_ , but Ingoldo could not - quite - restrain himself from saying, "Málonya - you cannot say with any truth that if it were Elenwë - "

"No," Turukáno cut him off, "but I can say it would have been _Elenwë_ , and not Fëanárion." But he waved the words away as he said them, as if granting part of the point. "He is still a fool."

Ingoldo chose to take the better part of valour and let that one be. After a moment, Turukáno asked, "Do they think Nelyafinwë will recover?" and Ingoldo chose to take the use of essë instead of _Fëanárion_ as a hopeful sign in itself.

"My sister seems unwilling to say for certain one way or the other," Ingoldo replied, choosing not to share all of what Nerwen had said - or implied. "She tells me Naicë says he will live, but what that means - I am less than certain. And I will admit that I am not eager to question Naicë myself."

"Who would be?" Turukáno asked, the question wholly rhetorical. "Irissë would not openly answer, either. I do not know if she does not know, or if she has been told not to say, or what else it might be. And with Irissë there, Itarillë . . . " and then he looked amused for a moment. "Deferred to my sister."

"She is very good at that," Ingoldo observed.

"Yes," Turukáno agreed, in the voice that a father uses when he wants others to think he finds something aggravating but is secretly pleased. "She is."

_v._

When her brother left, Nerwen bestirred herself to return to her own tent to make herself rest, for she intended to take the third watch from Naicë whether Naicë agreed or not.

More than once, Nerwen had observed that the healer seemed one who gave others good advice - like rest, and food, and time to themselves, and time with others, and all such things - and proceeded to ignore it for herself.

She had, indeed, more than once observed this to Naicë, who seemed to find the observation deeply aggravating, but difficult to argue with.

Back in Valinor, Nerwen had wondered why there seemed to be so _many_ of the Maiar who were in and around Estë's service, often only for brief pieces of time at a time, but continually. Now it seemed to her that in order to care for the healing of one person - any kind of person - one needed expanding circles of others, radiating out from that central point, each circle at least partially concerned with the welfare of the one closer to the one needing healing.

That perhaps was why Estë herself came so seldom out of her domain.

Nerwen wondered if Turukáno were indeed inclined to be more reasonable now; and if he was, she wondered if she could find a way to lay the burden of some of his brother's care to him. She wondered if that would even help. The trouble with Findekáno was that there were so few people he would listen to, and he had his father's way of evading all attempts to pin him down and force him to confront what you were trying to say to him.

Nerwen more than once had wondered if that were a habit of the Vanyar: Itarillë was very skilled in the tactic, and Elenwë had been a true mistress. So was Indis. And if you asked which one of the brothers were more like their father's mother, Turukáno or Findekáno, the answer was self-evident as soon as the question was asked.

Her own father did it too, sometimes. But much more rarely. Her mother did not like it, and with her father, her mother could - and indeed sometimes would in their early years together or so _her_ mother said - eventually corner him on a boat or a ship, and push him in the water, and refuse to let him back out until he stopped.

That was true of many things, in the end, when it came to her mother's people: in the end, you found yourself at the water, and the demands of a ship and the sea, and as Haruni had said more than once, Ossë's nature was shaped as much by the sea as the sea ever was by his nature.

It had helped to remember that, on the Ice. Sometimes Nerwen thought it was why it had seemed . . . not easier, she could not think _easier_ of anything there, but more _possible_ , maybe, for herself and her brothers to weather that journey without their minds freezing as solid as you hoped the ice beneath you had frozen.

Her father's people were not accustomed to limits that their ingenuity and craft could not conquer and conquer quickly; thus when the Ice resisted so completely - as it often did - it stymied them.

Even Aikanáro had observed once, privately, _The Ice is only the Sea's worst temper_. With every exigency and harsh limit their mother and their mother's mother and father had already taught them of, but magnified and increased more than tenfold.

And now, as she returned to her tent, her little brother was already there, and looked to have been pacing for some time while he waited for her.

Truthfully, Nerwen did not mean to laugh at him. And the laughter did not come out of amusement, not truly, and certainly not from mockery, but from something more complex: from a sudden odd affection and delight that he was still so much himself, and that she knew him, and - though she had not had time to consider it before - she knew why he was here; she knew what trouble brought him and in some ways at least that this was, most likely, a trouble she could solve easily enough.

The laughter was at all these things, and then finally at the look of both deep and patient aggravation Aikanáro gave her, before he said, "You are only allowed to do that if you _do_ explain exactly what in the Kindler's name _is_ going on, nésyë."

Nerwen covered her mouth with her hand and with some effort she composed herself. "I know," she said, and stepped forward to offer an embrace he returned with only slightly feigned reluctance. "Forgive me - it has been a . . ."

She halted, finding herself without the words, and shook her head against his shoulder. "There have been a very great many things filling these last two days," she said instead, "and my humour is strange."

"Your humour is always strange," her little brother told her, with as unconvincing a play of irritation as had been his play of reluctance; he did not shorten the embrace.

"I know," she agreed. "Let me sit, háno, and find something to drink, and I will tell you. You were with our brother today?"

Aikanáro let her go and gestured to her couch and the low table beside it, where it seemed he had anticipated her and already brewed yullas and found two cups to wait for them. Nerwen restrained herself from laughing again, for all the same reasons.

For now she could see in her mind's eye her youngest brother waiting, and then thinking of all the things likely to stand between him and the answers he wished when she did return, and so making this first so that it would be ready now.

"Yes," he said, curtly. "All three of them, all day."

He sat in the chair beside her couch and lifted the clay pot he had used for the yullas, filling both cups and waiting until she had settled to give her one; Nerwen felt a swell of affection for him, and for the effort he was clearly bringing to bear in not making those very _motions_ impatient.

It was not successful effort, but she could see the effort nonetheless.

"Irirainwë is patient," he continued, aggravation plain in his voice, "Nornasímo is stoic and Ingoldo is asking _me_ to be patient, and I have _been_ patient, but I am running _out_ of patience, nésa. Rapidly."

Perhaps because she had spent so much time today thinking on her cousins - all of her cousins - and their foibles, the way in which her brother knew his nature and if he could not always contain it, he at least made these efforts to manage its effects on what he did . . .

He could so easily not make it, and indeed there were so many poor examples for him to follow, in their kin, and yet he did. Seeing it brought another bloom of affection, for she understood the effort it took him.

"Would patience be harder than discretion, háno?" she asked, directly, just to be sure that he had thought of it; in response he shot her an attempt at a dark look over his cup.

" _Yes_ ," he said, short. "Secrets I can keep, ignorance is driving me mad."

And that, Nerwen supposed, was fair enough. True that Aikanáro was not skilled at pretending he did not have secrets to keep, but that would be pointless with any of this: everyone knew there were things that were not yet being said. And as for stubbornly _not_ saying what should not be said - there, at least, she could rely on all her brothers.

"What should I start with?" she asked, for in truth at this point she did not know what he did and did not know.

"What _happened_?" Aikanáro demanded; he gestured with his cup as the question burst out of, forcefully enough that he spilled some of the yullas on his hand and grimaced, putting the cup down and wiping his hand off. "Káno _disappeared_ for seven days without a word to anyone and then came back on an Eagle, and I thought Manwë wanted nothing to do with us, and also he came back apparently with Nelyafinwë, but that much is barely more than rumour because nobody but you and our cousins and their women has seen anything in that tent and even _Irissë's_ women won't say a word, never mind Itarillë's or yours, Itarillë spends a whole day avoiding her father and _yes_ I noticed that, everyone noticed that, and our uncle goes overnight from furious to patient and martyred and thoughtful and then Ingoldo's increasing scouting patrols and taking one himself while putting about word that _you_ are going to deal with anyone who carries tales about and _that_ is the sum and total of my knowledge, nésa, and none of it makes sense put together, and when I ask Ingoldo he gets a pained look and asks me to be patient."

This time he took the cup off the table again with too much force, but managed not to spill on his own hand. This time, too, Nerwen successfully repressed the affectionate amusement, because she knew it would not help, and she was in sympathy with the frustration.

In his place she would have felt it even stronger, though she would have shown it less.

Nerwen let herself sigh, for a moment feel the weight of what she would say, leaning her head on her hand and her elbow on the arm of the couch. She said, "Truth, háno: Findekáno went to Angamando to find Neylafinwë and recover him."

" - by himself?" Aikanáro asked after a long moment of silence, staring at her. And then when she nodded, he demanded, " _How_?"

"He walked," she said, with a sigh. "Or - granted that it is Findekáno we speak of, he likely ran as much of the way as he could, and chose to count the cost of that later. Yes, háno, I am saying he took the pack on his back and walked - or ran - across the pass through the Huinoronti, and across Laicarda and Thoryandórë to Angamando by himself, and he told no one, save that he left that note saying he would return."

It was not strange to her that every time she spoke aloud what their cousin had done, it sounded more like madness than the last time. Of course it did. But that did not make it sound less mad.

There was some comfort in how Aikanáro continued to stare at her for some time before finally asking, " . . . what did he plan?" It meant he at least understood how mad the act had been as well.

Sometimes Findekáno's wilder ideas seemed far too reasonable to her little brother.

"I don't think he did, háno," Nerwen told him, and it was the truth as well. "Not truly. I think he had an intention, and felt that there was no real plan he could make. And that is why I think he did not say anything to you, or to Nornasímo, lest you try to go with him, or follow him even if he forbade you to come. He was prepared to risk himself, but I do not think he was willing to risk anyone else."

She did think that, now. She had not been sure, the night before. Had not been sure her cousin had not simply been reckless, thoughtless, even arrogant and thus had not been sure he did not discount her brothers' loyalty and affection. But now she was. After watching him today, she was.

His only plan had been to take a great risk, dare a great danger, and hope against hope to succeed, and if he had been willing to throw his own life on that hope, he had not been willing to throw any others. And far from thinking her brothers would not wish to help him - he had known they would. And so had made certain they did not know.

It had been something of madness; what he had done could hardly be more dangerous. But she could not call it reckless; Findekáno had reckoned very carefully, before he did what he did.

For some time Aikanáro was silent, as if attempting to understand this. He turned his half-empty cup one way in his hands, staring at the pattern of flowers along its rim and then turning it the other way.

Nerwen felt she could almost see him turning his thoughts over the same way, turning what she had said this way and that, until he could take it in; she felt a certain tension in him ease, as if he could accept what she had told him, where he could not have accepted what he feared before without pain.

She knew he had finished when he looked up and he asked, "How . . . _did_ he do it?" and Nerwen took a deep breath, and drank some of her yullas.

"I do not know all of it, hányo," she admitted. "It has not yet been meet to press for many details. All that I know is that he found Neylafinwë, some way or other, and had to cut off his right hand to free him."

She considered whether to say the rest, but in the end she sighed and concluded, "And I think had Thorondor not intervened, we would have been _lucky_ to so much as _hear_ about Findekáno's death - but he did intervene, and no, I do not know why."

Aikanáro searched her face a little, but then nodded, and emptied his cup before he set it aside.

"And now you know near as much as I do," Nerwen told him. "Beyond that what I know is that Nelyafinwë is badly, badly hurt - the loss of his hand is the least of it. Naicë thinks he will live, and he seems to better today than he was when he arrived, but that is a small enough thing, as he was near dead then. Findekáno is more exhausted than he is aware, and heartsick; yes, Turukáno was angry at all of this, and Itarillë did not wish to fight with him, for she was the one who spoke first in taking Nelyafinwë as nautamo. Our uncle was angry last night, and this morning emerged more reasonable; I do not know why, but I am grateful for it. Something seems to have happened with Turukáno this afternoon that has quieted him a little, but I do not know what. And that is all I know."

Aikanáro put his face in his hands for a moment, and sighed. "I knew he was . . . grieved," he said, quietly, and clearly meant their cousin. "But that is not new, you know it is not, he has been . . . grieved, and pretending he was not, since Fëanáro left for Formenos and Mai - Nelyafinwë went with him. He has said nothing of this to us the time that we have been here. I did not think he was so . . . I do not know. That he would try something like this."

"I believe he worked very hard to make sure no one did, háno," she said, gently. "He did not want anyone to know, or to do anything with that knowledge. I do not think he believed anyone would wish to help - or if you did, it would only be out of affection for him, and he did not think that was enough, and so it would do no good for anyone to know it. And for now he is simply too weary to think far beyond the next thing in front of him. I think you will be able to find him and speak to him, in the days to come. Will it be easier to wait now?"

Aikanáro sighed. "Yes," he said, and added, "forgive my . . . impatience."

Nerwen leaned over to catch her little brother behind his head, and kiss his forehead. "There is nothing to forgive," she said. "I know you. Forgive the rest of us for not thinking more kindly before now."

Aikanáro stayed a little while longer, and Nerwen was not unhappy that he did. Others might have found it difficult to believe she could find her little brother's presence soothing, but nevertheless, it was true. He was bright, and alive, and whatever he felt ran close beneath his skin - and so it was easy to feel his anxious care ease, the frustration that had wound him tightly release, and comforting to know she had been able to do something to help that.

But it was only a little while before he gave her a sidelong look, and told her that she should rest. And Nerwen could not disagree. She could barely hope to convince Naicë to rest herself if she did not. And so her brother left her.

She had meant to bathe, but that seemed more effort now than she cared to make, and instead she lay down and closed her eyes for a time, with some hope that her dreams would not be dark.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third time Maitimo woke, he could remember.
> 
> He could remember both times he had woken before, and many other things. Remembering . . . was not _believing_ , no more than he could yet believe what he heard, or felt, or what the smell of the air told him. He did not believe those. He did not believe that. He could not.

**IV**

_i._

The third time Maitimo woke, he could remember. 

He could remember both times he had woken before, and many other things. Remembering . . . was not _believing_ , no more than he could yet believe what he heard, or felt, or what the smell of the air told him. He did not believe those. He did not believe that. He could not. 

But he could remember. 

This time he woke not because of dreams, but from the deep and growing pain in his right arm and shoulder, pain that was only strange because the fact that it _grew_ said that before it grew enough to wake him, it had been less. It was not a sudden pouring fire but an increasing ache. 

It spoke of pain that had ceased and now returned, bringing him to sense, instead of awareness that fled and came back to pain. And that was strange. 

The waking was only strange because it was . . . waking, awakening from sleep, not rising up out of dull clinging blackness to be spat back into knowing. The pain in his shoulder and his right arm grew but it was . . . not cold, and the air was - 

If memory were true, when he had woken before it had been out of dreams, not out of pain. If memory was true, he could remember that. 

More important, maybe: he could remember . . . before. Before, against the stone, breathing in smoke, alone for how long now and it seemed even _they_ had forgotten him, his Enemy and his Enemy's servant, Maitimo could . . . remember. 

Remember what had happened. 

If he believed that memory. 

He'd fallen into the stupor, the thing that was not sleep, the dark, blank and sullen space that was _nothing_ like sleep, like rest, and yet was the closest to that relief that Maitimo could find for so long, and that he sought every time that he could, the only thing that could eat away at time that passed otherwise . . . .worse. He had fallen into it, in a mockery of relief, and then - 

\- he had been pulled out again. 

The moment had been tangled, confused, as if he had been torn into different strands of himself and they fought each other inside his own mind in a screaming chaos. He heard something and his mind had dissolved into the snarling tangle - one thread wishing nothing more than to retreat back to the darkness, flight; another winding itself to a ragged pitch because it knew the voice he heard and knew what that _meant_ and knew nothing more beyond that than the desire to plead _no not that anything else please no_ \- 

And one thread, and that strand winning slowly, that knew, that remembered, that thought - 

That knew what he heard, and remembered that whatever else they did, his Enemy and his Enemy's servant did not sing. 

Not like this. Not without purpose, or power. 

That like all the others of their kind, for them song was as a shaping of the world to their will and they did not do so lightly. Not just to fill the air with song, or to move feeling or - 

And so it could not be them. It could not be what the rest of him knew - it could not be what he feared. 

Had to be something else. 

He had no sense of how long it took for that thought to grow in him, or to win mastery over the rest of him that clung to silence, to the only hope he now understood - that he could stay lost in that darkness or in half-waking emptiness and _nothing_ would drag him back to knowledge, and waking; nothing. 

Least of all the games his Enemy's servant loved to play, with shapes and faces and voices he pulled out of Maitimo's thoughts and spun into poison back to him. 

He did not know how long it took. But eventually, that knowledge, that it could not be what he feared - in the end, it won. 

That, he could remember, though he remembered too that he could not understand how this could be so, could not see how it could come to be, and if part of him could maybe believe this was not a phantom or a lie being spun into a trap, he had not been sure at all that it was not simply . . . madness, confusion. 

Phantoms of his own mind, without aid. 

That had happened before. Not . . . like this, not so long, and not both so strange and yet so solid. Madness had spun his father berating him, madness had spun his mother screaming, and madness had given him the dead bodies of his brothers speaking to him with their wounds still bleeding - 

Madness had even for a moment tried to weave home, though it always burned and bled soon after. 

Madness had never told him that he yet hung on the rock, that the sky was still grey and the air choked, that agony still wracked him - and that he heard a voice, that he heard _Káno's_ voice, singing, to no purpose, just somewhere beyond his sight. 

When the world shattered into confusion and nightmare-waking, it had not been like this. 

But it might still be that. Maitimo knew it still might be that. Only new madness. For how could - 

But that did not matter. 

However impossibly Findekáno had come to be there, if it were true then maybe, maybe one single mercy might be granted. Or even that, maybe, if Maitimo could believe it enough then even the madness, the dream of an arrow, maybe it might still work. 

Might let him escape this, for the empty silence of waiting alone for Arda to end. 

And if not, what difference did it make - what difference _could_ it make. If he called again to something that was not there, if he begged again to something that was not real or would not hear or had no mercy to grant - what did it matter? 

How many times before? What difference could it make? 

So he had. And it . . . had not been madness. 

The rest was confused, wrapped around that knowing, that memory but . . . tangled like thread gone awry and snarled into knots. 

A confused memory of begging, pleading for that one mercy - _kill me, end me, melindo, héru I beg you -_ and of Káno arguing and other things that made as little sense but seemed to have been true. 

Of Káno arguing, and denying, and yet then weeping and then agreeing, promising, but then instead of pain or darkness - 

\- wings, wide enough to block the light, and the scream of rock splitting and shattering, dust and slivers and fragments all around. 

Memory of . . . shrinking from Findekáno's hand, mind tangled both around fear and around horror at the thought that Káno would have to touch him, as he was now and . . . confusion, not understanding how Káno could be so near; and then giving in and begging, again, _don't leave me here kill me please_ , unsure if what he pleaded with was even real. 

He remembered the words, Káno saying _I will not leave you, I would_ never _leave you_ but as if each word struck the stone like a hammer, and then Káno cursing something, not him, begging his forgiveness and Maitimo did not understand - 

And then pain, again, or the shape of it. The knowledge of pain. 

Then nothing, except maybe dark dreams he could not recall, until someone - Irissë? - woke him. 

Or so memory said. And the rest. 

And now he woke and remembered and did not believe any of it. Wished, wished desperately that he had not woken - so much that it was nearly another pain, against the growing pain of his shoulder. 

Maitimo did not open his eyes. He did not move. As if, and the thought mocked him, as if, were it all a lie, that would help. As if it had ever helped - and it never had. Never had. 

And memory he did not want twisted around that thought, a laughing, clawing echo - _ah, lovely-one - do you think I am some hunting creeping thing, and if you lie so very still, I will think you are a rock and go away? do you truly think I am that easily fooled?_ \- and like the echo brought it, the pain that had woken him beat greater, sharpening so that his breath caught. 

He wished he had not woken. 

When Findekáno's voice came from behind him, Maitimo could not stop himself from flinching; could not keep the sound of his name from driving him to curl in on himself. Not for anything. Not for all he could remember. 

Memory and belief were not the same thing, and he remembered, but he did not believe.

But what he could hear, what came after, was the sound of someone rising from where they sat, moving, and then Káno calling, " _Naicë_!" - the name that Maitimo did not know, not before, the name that went with the woman who seemed too bright for her shape, that he did not remember, before the memories he could not wholly believe. 

Calling sharp, as if in urgency, worry thick in Káno's voice and it did not - 

It had not been . . . like this. It - 

And then the sound of someone kneeling beside where Maitimo lay on his side, in front of him, and then Findekáno's voice closer and softer, saying, "Maitinya - are you awake?" with a hand carefully touching the side of his face. 

It meant nothing. He knew that. And if he opened his eyes he would know - he would _have_ to know, to let the moment dissolve into everything it could be and he knew, so well, what it would become. 

But it had not . . . been this? Káno's voice so . . . uncertain, something that was not . . . fear, not entirely fear, but was kin to it, and Maitimo had not . . . _heard that_ in Káno's voice before, but if - 

And Káno's voice beside him, breaking into that thought. 

Saying, quietly, "Tyenya - _Maitinya_. I swear to you, all is well - Naicë says the hasama, the drink against the pain, she says it is likely near gone, but she has another, and this one will let you stay awake for a while. That is why your shoulder hurts, tyenya, and we can fix that." 

Voice uneven, _anxious_ , and something - the hand touching his face brushed back over his hair and then came back, lighter, and Káno said, "Please, tyenya," quieter still. "Look at me." 

Maitimo opened his eyes. 

Findekáno knelt by the bed, narrow bed made of timber and rope and the sheet and blanket over feathers. Maitimo watched, for a moment, how Findekáno's eyes did not change, and he did not become anyone else. 

Did not become something else wearing a face and a shape; stayed himself, face anxious and weary and then eyes lightening, a little, as Maitimo searched his face. 

Remembering was not believing. Seeing was not believing. But this . . . was not what he remembered, either. Not before. Before Maitimo could not look, and watch, and watch Káno stay himself. Watch his eyes stay his own. 

Or lighten, only a little, looking back at him. 

"You're safe, tyenya," Findekáno said, and confused memory told Maitimo it had been said before, one of the other times he woke - or maybe both. "All is well, I promise you. Naicë has something that will help with pain - if you lie back I can help you sit up, so you can drink it." 

Maitimo wanted to believe this - wanted so badly that it hurt almost more than his shoulder, and his mind felt slow, and heavy, and as Káno touched his face again he fell into belief, maybe, stumbled and fell into it because he could not think that believing now would be worse - even if it were a lie - 

It could not be worse than it would be, and to believe now might be . . . something. 

He would believe now. 

And there was relief, again, on Káno's face. As if he saw that. 

Maitimo's mind felt so slow, and so heavy, that it took him time to understand that he lay on his left side, but his right arm would not move; that he had to move a little to free his left hand, reach to touch Findekáno's in one more test. 

Káno caught his hand and kissed the back of it, and said, "Lie back, tyenya, and I can help you sit without hurting you." His hands were warm and familiar. And it still had to be a lie but Maitimo did not care, and - 

And it wasn't. Findekáno was _there_ , Maitimo could see him, feel his hands, his skin, _him_ , and he was different than he had been - hair longer, garments worn - as if time had passed since Maitimo had seen him. And he was different, wearing looks Maitimo had never seen. 

As if there had never been reason to before. 

Maitimo was torn between knowing it was a lie and knowing it was not, except it did not tear at him because he did not care, but his thoughts dragged at themselves, were slow and heavy and it was difficult to understand . . .anything. 

His shoulder hurt. And it felt far away and unreal except that it was like a stone in the middle of his mind, holding him still. Making it harder to think. Even harder. 

Káno had spoken to him, Káno wanted him to do . . . something? Káno asked him to lie back, just now. 

He should have been able to answer, Maitimo knew. His throat hurt, but that . . . did not truly matter, and his voice now was harsh and broken but he could still speak. Could make sound. He knew that. And he understood - maybe - what Káno had asked, and he _could_ think - a little, at least - and he should have been able to answer. 

Somehow, though, speech would not come. Even as he dragged his thoughts forward, even as he managed to understand what was wanted, Maitimo could say nothing. Words rattled trapped in his head, and in his chest, but they did not even reach his throat, let alone his mouth and tongue. 

In the end he could only nod, and do as he was bid, moving from his side to his back against the bed. 

Even that was . . . . difficult. It made his breath catch and he felt his heart race, and it was not only because it hurt, though it did. Findekáno stood up from the ground and Maitimo could feel himself try to shrink away, even as he did not let himself move, as if inside his skin itself he could pull back. He could not stop himself from closing his eyes. Now, it would - 

But Káno only sat beside him on the bed, in the corner where the frame met itself. 

"Here, tyenya," he said, and bent to slide one arm underneath the pillow behind Maitimo, so that when Maitimo braced himself to sit, Findekáno helped to lift him. Took most of his weight. 

The movement still made Maitimo's head spin, or the tent spin around him - and it was a _tent_ , still, truly - and the pain in his side and shoulder deepen and go bright and dark at once, eating at the edges of his vision. It became harder to breathe, and his body did not want to obey him. 

There was an ache and a burning at his wrist, too, where he knew his right hand no longer was, but that was . . . small, far away, and unimportant, more like an itch or an irritation, where his shoulder and side felt like ice forcing its way along his veins, inside his skin. 

Distantly, he felt Findekáno move to hold him up, move so that Maitimo could lean against him, warm and solid; but it was hard to feel his skin, against that cold and dull pain. It became hard to think and for a moment all he wanted was for it to stop, could not think beyond that desire. 

He became aware of the woman standing beside the bed, patient and quiet and yet like she should be too bright to look at, except that it was nothing he could see with his eyes. She held a cup, and waited, as if she could wait forever. 

Maitimo did not know how long she had already been waiting. He could not remember if she had spoken to him, or how long it had been since Káno helped him to sit. The woman had not moved, had not stepped into his sight, Maitimo just . . . became aware of her. Began to understand that she was there, when he had not before. 

_Naicë_ , memory said, putting her face to the name Findekáno had called before: dark hair and dark eyes and small and - Maitimo knew, somehow - very old, _very_ old, as old as his grandfather had been at least, and also . . . strange, somehow. In some way he did not understand. 

She waited until that thought was finished, or it . . . seemed that she did, before she said, "Drink this," and held out the cup to him. 

Her voice was lighter than he expected, and it was hard to understand what she meant, but he took the cup and this time his left hand closed around it well enough that he did not nearly drop it, though he still felt clumsy and slow. She waited until he had hold of it, and Maitimo thought he felt Findekáno move, but in the end he could take it, hold it for himself. 

As she let go, the woman said, "I regret that to let your mind clear a little, there would be this space between when the last dose faded, and this one begins, but it will help soon enough when you have taken it." 

The liquid in it felt strange in his mouth, as if it felt or tasted colder than it truly was, but it was easy to drink. It did not burn his throat or make him gag or retch; it was not foul, and it did not choke him. 

It hurt to swallow, but it hurt to breathe, so that meant. . . very little. 

The cup felt heavy, now, and Maitimo let it and his hand rest against his own chest for a moment, before Findekáno took the cup and gave it back to Naicë, who set it aside. 

"It should work quickly," she went on, in the same calm voice. "Though it will not give so complete a relief as the other, it should be enough - and it will let you stay awake for a little while: long enough for you to move, a little, and bathe, and allow us to change your bedding." 

She looked at him for a moment, head tilted to one side, and Maitimo thought somehow she could tell if he understood, or not, and how much. Or how little. 

Mostly, how little: it was still hard to think, to make sense of thoughts and think ahead to what they might mean, at least at first. When each breath moved something that pressed that cold dull pain deeper into his side and his shoulder. 

Though she did not lie - after a few breaths that became . . . less. Slowly. Strangely. Each breath he took in hurt, but each breath he let go seemed to take some of that hurt away without giving it back for the next inward breath. 

And after some little time Maitimo could . . . think, feel more, be aware of other things. Of other, lesser aching, of less thought-devouring pains - and of the warmth of Findekáno's ribs and shoulder against half of his back, of Findekáno's hand carefully against the space just towards his spine of whatever it was that held his arm and shoulder still. 

Of an ache somewhere under his heart that meant something, but that he could not place. Of the words she had spoken before, and what they meant. 

Then the woman turned and took a bowl from the table beside her. "You may still need help with this," she said, when Maitimo tried to take it, more because she held it out to him than because he understood. She did not let go, not at once, as the weight of the bowl settled into his hand. 

It was heavier than the cup had been, and for a moment even though she did not let go of the bowl Maitimo feared he would drop it, and feared what that would mean. Pain flowed up his shoulder and down his side as unthinking he tried to use the arm that did not work, and was not free, to lift the hand he no longer had - 

And then Findekáno's hand was around his, over his, taking the rest of the bowl's weight from the woman's hands. 

"It is not only weakness," she said, gently, as Maitimo tried to catch his breath, to find again the way of breathing he had managed just before, the one that had not brought so much pain. "There has been damage done, even to that hand: the wrists are a fragile passage in the working of the body, and easily damaged by misuse. It will most likely heal. Soon, also," she said, as Findekáno helped Maitimo lift the bowl to drink from it, "you will be able to eat more than this. But as yet it would only cause you more pain, and nourish you little enough. Our bodies can forget how to make use of food, starved long enough, alas." 

The words all felt as if they had meaning, and as if some part of him were catching them and putting them aside to understand later - and more, it felt also that she knew that, as well, and that feeling was like slivers of ice in his thoughts. Except that her face only showed calm and maybe regret, and her eyes stayed like those of Eldar and did not become anything else. 

When the bowl was empty the ache beneath his ribs was less, and maybe that meant it had been hunger. He remembered hunger, or remembered that he had known it, before; it was hard to think of it as something in itself, as something apart from the rotting whole that made waking the last thing he had wanted. But maybe it had felt like that, sometimes. Its own pain. 

He could hold the cup full of water that she gave him afterwards himself, mostly, though at the end when it was nearly empty somehow his grip loosened, fingers suddenly strange and half-numb, and he flinched when the cup fell and the last of the water spilled onto the cloth that still covered his legs. But it was only water. 

There were words in his mind to say, when it happened, but still they could not seem to reach even so far as his throat. When Findekáno took the cup and gave it back to the woman - to Naicë - Maitimo found his own hand reaching to catch Káno's, though he could not remember deciding to. Could not remember deciding to move, or to do anything at all. 

His head was no longer clouded, like before, no longer caught up in a sort of dark, clinging mud, but everything still seemed . . . strange, disjointed, full of the shapes of thoughts without meaning, or meaning he could not find shapes to fit, and none of it turning to words. There was too much of everything, too many . . . things, noises and movements, though there was nothing here except himself, and Káno, and the woman. 

And more it felt as if there was some part of him broken away, again, some part that stood behind or beside, a strand of thought and it hissed at him for moving, and for silence, and for the way Káno's fingers interlaced with his and Káno's thumb moved against the heel of his hand. For everything he did or did not do he should do . . . something else but he did not know what. 

And a strand of him still waited for this not to be what it seemed. Waited for the change, for the moment it would change, and that strand knew he had been wrong before, that it would be worse, worse than any time before -

\- but that thread of him lost to another that did not care, did not understand that something could become something it was not now, only understood now, and a hand on his, arm and shoulder against him, around him, and he would be still here, in case it stayed, in case now stayed as it was and another struggled to grasp at sense, and words and - 

The woman said, "Nelyafinwë," and it was not loud but it was clear and some of the thoughts scattered like dust and others pulled tight. Made him catch his breath - stabbing bright pain into his side, for a moment, though less still, much less than before - and look up, see her waiting, face still calm. 

Because that name in that voice, that kind of voice - it was strange. It did not fit with anything else in the confusion in his head. It . . . was not Atar, or a lie of Atar, it was not mocking, but it . . . demanded? No, but it was not, there was no hesitation, there was no - 

It was strange. It did not belong anywhere. But that name in that voice scattered the noise in his head and he looked at her, at the woman, who watched him still. 

And . . . she knew. He could see that, but more, she could see _him_ \- he could tell, he could feel it, and he hated it. Not her, he did not hate her, how could he, but he hated _that_ , hated that she could see him, hated _what_ she could see because it was . . . .more - 

It was not only what anyone could, what Káno could, what _anyone_ could who had eyes to look at him could see, and that was bad enough: wreckage, weakness, torn skin and sharp bone, and filth, and mind slow and stupid, and that was enough, was bad enough, but it - she could see all the rest. 

The fear and confusion and stumbling stuttering thoughts and the childish wish that she would go away, that everything would go away, that everything would just _stop_ that he could just be still and everything would stop. She could see that, and the shame made him sick. 

He did not want anyone to see that. 

They should not have to. 

At the same time he knew this, it also came to Maitimo that his shoulder did not hurt anymore unless he tried to move it, or moved himself. Then it hurt. But not if he was still. 

Noticing that, his thoughts became a little clearer, though now something in him cringed at the idea of movement, for he thought he would be told to move, soon. And Maitimo knew the woman saw that, as well. 

The woman, Naicë, gave no sign of what she saw. She only said, "There is warm water and clean clothing," nodding to somewhere behind him and to one side, "and Findekáno will help you. You will likely need that help - alas, what movement you can do on your own, it is better that you do, for bodies need movement. It will not be pleasant, but it will do no harm. And I will be here, should anything go amiss." 

It was as if she said it as much to Káno as to him. Not all of it made sense, made meaning Maitimo could grasp, but he could understand that they wanted him to stand, and to go with Káno where he led, so that much he could do. Would try. 

Findekáno's hand moved against his, and Maitimo looked down to see that he still held Káno's hand. He had forgotten. He still leaned against Káno's side, and Káno's other hand still helped him keep from falling back. 

Maitimo did not know how Findekáno could bear to touch him. As his thoughts cleared more things, more memories, seeped into them as if through cracks. Like blood between fingers pressed over an open wound. Memories - things that had come before, things that had come, happened, things he had done, and as they seeped into his thoughts Maitimo could not think how anyone could bear to touch him, but least of - 

"Come, tyenya," Káno said, gently, kissing the side of his head, voice scattering Maitimo's attention and dragging it away. "It is not far." 

And if Maitimo could not think how anyone could bear to touch him, he would do anything Káno asked. Or try. 

_ii._

Maitimo was pale and unsteady and it took a great deal of Findekáno's strength of will not to ask him to stop, to wait, and then to simply carry Maitimo to the bath. Thin as he was, he would still weigh little and almost nothing; it would not be difficult, where watching each movement as each movement clearly hurt . . . was difficult. 

Findekáno bit his tongue, and did not. Part of that was what Naicë had said, both just now and earlier at greater length, after Findekáno had awoken from his own rest: that as hard as it might seem, right now it was better that Maitimo move himself if he could, for muscles and joints left still too long did poorly, and that they would know soon enough if he truly could not manage on his own. That it was better to let him move himself, so that it was something he did, and not something that was done to him, or with him. 

So that was a part of it. 

The rest, though, came from knowing Maitimo - knowing that it would hurt him to remember it later. That he would remember it as a weakness and more, that he see that weakness as a fault. Maitimo was rarely patient with himself, and Findekáno doubted he would be more so in days to come.

Doubted it very much. 

In this moment, Findekáno was not sure how much Maitimo truly understood, beyond what Findekáno or Naicë asked him to do - and even that seemed to take time. But he would remember it later, and he would understand it then, and Findekáno tried to remember that. And only helped him the steps to the bathing tent, until he could help him to sit in the chair that waited. 

Naicë had told Findekáno. . . a great many things, in truth, and it took some effort to keep them ordered in his mind: that most of the bandages could be taken off and left off, for anything that was unlikely to have healed enough would be sutured; that some of the wounds might bleed some small amount and then stop, but if anything seemed worse than that he should call her; that taking the brace away would hurt, but not as much as it had the once before; that between exhaustion and pain and emaciation, Maitimo would likely feel the cold very easily, and far more easily than Findekáno himself. 

That it was impossible to say whether Maitimo would show the agitation or lethargy or something else, and also that what he might show when they were alone could be very different from what he did when other eyes were watching, and she could not predict what it might be. 

And other things. 

Findekáno glad that it was Naicë here, and none of the others, not even Nerwen. That when Maitimo had begun to wake, she had bid the one of Irissë's women who was still here to fill the bath and then go. 

It was different, what Naicë saw or did not see; and even if Maitimo did not know her now, or know what she was or why she was here, helping, well: it was not likely she would change in what she was, in how she fit into the rest of their people, in the way she was different, in any time to come. 

Even with what she had told him, Findekáno still felt as if he were in strange and hostile territory, with not only no map, but poor light to see by - but to begin with, at least, Maitimo seemed to fall into the absent quiet and that was . . . most likely for the best. 

It was warm within the bathing tent, though outside had turned to night and and to a harsher wind, one that threatened rain. They had moved two of the braziers here to join the low stove for the bath-water, and the canvas walls of the alcove were of two layers, the sturdy canvas without and a warmer cloth within it. 

To Findekáno it was nearly too warm, and so he hoped for Maitimo it would be warm enough. 

While interfering in the crafters' task, the one thing that Findekáno thought he had seen to that might otherwise have been missed was a wooden chair with wide arms in the center, settled on the flattened stones and gravel, and not only the wooden stools that would seem more natural. He was glad that he had done so, for when he helped Maitimo to sit, Maitimo would have near-fallen against the chair's back if Findekáno had not helped him rest more carefully. 

That Maitimo could not stand in order to wash before getting into the tub was clear, but given how he had struggled the second time he woke, Findekáno had felt certain that even sitting on a stool without a back would have been painful, and now he was more certain of it. 

While he had rested, someone - likely one of Irissë's aranduri, or perhaps Itarillë's - had put baskets of cloths and a smaller basket with several cakes of soap to one side of the bath, and larger towels on the one small table set back against the cloth walls of the tent. 

Findekáno had taken two of the tall, glass-sheltered lamps on their long poles from the bathhouses themselves, and lit them from the smaller lamp that sat beside the towels on the table before setting them up. Between them, the alcove was nearly as bright as the main tent, if warmer and slightly gentler in its light. 

The water in the sitting-bath steamed. It was too hot as yet, but that was no matter; it would take some time to undo bandages and to use the soap, cloths and other bowls of water to make certain that Maitimo was clean enough that he could simply rest in the warm water afterwards, and by then, Findekáno suspected it would be perfect. 

For now he filled the smaller basin with water and set it on one of the stools beside Maitimo's chair, bringing one of the baskets of cloths and setting one of the cakes of soap on top of them. He used one foot to draw the other stool near as well. 

In the time it took to do this, Maitimo did not move - merely sat where Findekáno had helped him to sit, staring with empty eyes into the space in front of him, ribs moving with slow and shallow breaths. It took Findekáno saying his name twice before Maitimo looked up to him, and for a moment he seemed startled and on the edge of fear, before Findekáno sat in front of him on the stool. 

And even when there was recognition, still: Maitimo's eyes found Findekáno's face and stayed there as if searching, as if trying to make certain what he saw was true. Findekáno found himself moving carefully as he sat. 

"We need to take these off," he said, careful with each word; at the confusion in Maitimo's face, he briefly touched one of the bandages wound around Maitimo's upper arm, and the brace itself. 

After a moment, as if the words needed to be turned over to make sense, Maitimo nodded. It still seemed hard for him to speak, and that worried Findekáno no small amount, but it . . . was also not as if he _needed_ to just now. So Findekáno would wait. He would ask Naicë later. 

As careful as Findekáno tried to be, there was still a faint grimace of pain that crossed Maitimo's face when Findekáno undid the brace and set it aside. Resting that arm on the arm of the chair seemed to help; it troubled Findekáno that Maitimo did not do so himself, nor did . . . anything else, until Findekáno saw the look and hastened to find some support. 

Maitimo did not look at him now either, though he did not pull away as Findekáno began to remove the catches that held the bandages in place. Instead, he his gaze fell, and he stared into the distance again. 

It worried Findekáno that Maitimo seemed to need to look away; it troubled him. Yet at the same time he was almost grateful, for it was . . . difficult, to control what might show in his face. And though he tried as best he could, Findekáno was not wholly sure how well he did. 

It would be a lie to say that Findekáno had not truly looked at Maitimo before, had not truly looked and seen the state of him, and Findekáno did his best not to lie even to himself. Even at the bottom of that damned cliff, he had seen and he had _understood_ , had known. 

Even there, even still out of his reach Findekáno could _see_ his cousin, could see wounds and starvation and suffering, and even there he could remember, and what he had seen even then, set against memory held dear, had hurt. 

Even there. 

Let alone last night; let alone earlier today. Every time he had looked, Findekáno had _seen_ , and so the root of horror was not new. 

Still: the change of light, the change of place and posture, the absence of anything else to take his thoughts away - all of it meant it took new meaning again, and hurt anew. 

Hurt anew, the way skin stretched over bone: the sight of each bone and joint too sharp, as if they were close to tearing through. Hurt the way everywhere Maitimo's skin was broken by scars and the scabs of healing - _now_ -healing, at least - wounds. And that there were both those that were deep, deliberate and sure, and those that seemed small, afterthoughts, insults that were themselves injury. 

As if leaving any skin unmarked would be too much. 

Now, as Findekáno began to remove the bandages, he could see now that many of the marks that had not bled were burns. All of them seemed older, so that where there had been blistered skin it had shrivelled to a line in the center, now nearly like scratches or thin cuts, save for the wider livid red around them. And Findekáno could see how many of those were the width of a finger drawn along skin. 

Many were drawn across Maitimo's face and as Findekáno unwound the careful bandage that held gauze against the side of Maitimo's neck, he could see too many of them there as well. 

It made him angry; it made him feel sick. He mastered both, as quickly as he could, but he was not certain some sign did not show in his face. So it might be better that Maitimo did not look and see for the flicker of a moment before Findekáno could control himself again. 

The skin at the corner of Maitimo's eyes was cracked and raw, and so was the skin at the corners of his mouth; his lips were cracked, and split in places, some of which seemed to have opened over half-healed cracks from before, skin torn and peeling. And there were older scars, if that was the right word for them - skin that had darkened, though it was closed, in marks that drew back a little from his mouth, their shapes suggestive of . . . Findekáno did not wish to think what. 

Under the red tracks of the burns, Findekáno could see, too, the older marks that were more clearly in the shape of hand - or . . . something like a hand, anyway - at Maitimo's throat. As if something had held him by it and left a wound with the touch. 

Other marks on Maitimo's shoulder, neck, and near his throat were more clearly those of teeth, if Findekáno read them right. Not that he wished to. There and - as Findekáno undid those bandages as well - on the inside of Maitimo's upper arms and his wrists. 

Findekáno knew enough of the body to know they were places where the greater veins and arteries carried blood closer to the skin, though he did not understand what that meant. But he thought it must mean something, for he was certain he could feel Maitimo shrink away from those, when the bandages came away. 

Though when he asked, Maitimo shook his head without looking at him and shaped the words, _there is nothing_ , even if there seemed to be little voice behind them. That worried Findekáno more, for he did not in the least believe it. There was something; it was only something Maitimo did not wish to say, or did not feel he could, or . . . .something. 

When Findekáno unwound the cloth from where Maitimo's right hand no longer was, he thought it may have been more difficult for him to look than it was for Maitimo. It was the first time so far that Maitimo watched what Findekáno did, instead of looking away and through the world, or down at the ground, and for a moment his face had more of the shape of detached interest that Findekáno knew well, and less of the emptiness or misery that cut at him. 

As if the loss of a hand were simply something to mark, to remark, and to consider. 

For Findekáno himself it was . . . difficult to look at. Almost more _because_ the wound was so neatly closed, the edges of stitching strange in skin instead of cloth. It was clean and closed, edges of cut and broken skin turned in so that what was a maiming and should, his mind insisted, have been a gaping wound seemed . . . neat, already mended. It felt amiss, even though he knew it was a blessing. 

Findekáno did know that, and knew that what he felt was maybe even childish. But he felt it all the same. 

And, too, the sight came with . . . acid, and recriminations aimed at himself in his mind. That he had in all his thought and time spent readying for what he did given so little thought to . . . so many things. That not least. 

He did not regret what he did. But more and more he could see how the enormity of what he was choosing to do had overcome him, had even blinded him to more critical matters of _how to do it_ ; and he could see how close that had come to ending in ruin, and how much he owed to the mercy of either the Eagle-king or his lord. 

Findekáno did not know which. It was as difficult to imagine Thorondor would act against or without Manwë's will on this as it was to imagine that Manwë would have any reason to answer Findekáno's pleading at the cliff with so much of a boon. But whichever it was, without that mercy Findekáno was uncomfortably aware he would have failed, or worse than failed. 

It took some care to remove the loose-fitting leggings that Maitimo wore without needing him to support himself. And though Naicë had warned him, it was still difficult to both see and feel the way that Maitimo tensed when Findekáno undid the ties that held the folded waist closed - and that Maitimo seemed to try to hide that he had. 

Findekáno stopped, and waited until Maitimo looked at him, to say, "I will not hurt you, melindo," and then perhaps regret that he said it, for even as he spoke he thought maybe it was worse, that it would be worse if Maitimo thought that Findekáno was . . . somehow offended or hurt that Maitimo would flinch. That what he said might sound more like accusation than comfort. 

He hoped Maitimo could see that was not so. 

For a moment it seemed that shadows of many things crossed Maitimo's face, and Findekáno understood few of them; then Maitimo closed his eyes and looked down, and drew his left hand over his eyes for a moment. 

"I know," Maitimo said, and his voice rasped, was rough and uneven, but still: was his own. 

He let his hand fall; on impulse, Findekáno caught it, and there was some reassurance in how quickly and tightly Maitimo's fingers curved around his hand to hold it. Findekáno kissed Maitimo's knuckles, points unwontedly sharp against his mouth. 

After a moment, Findekáno had to let go, for he needed both hands to carefully pull the leggings out from under Maitimo without needing him to hold himself up, so that he could set them aside with the bandages to be cleaned. 

Now he could remove the last of those, for there was still cloth wound around each of Maitimo's feet, one ankle, both calves, one knee, and then last the one at his thigh. When Findekáno reached that one, Maitimo did not flinch or shudder the way he had when Irissë had changed it, but he did turn his face away, and Findekáno could see his jaw go tight, so he took some extra care. 

He could not keep himself from staring, though, when he had undone that and could see what it covered. He tried to; he doubted even as he felt himself go still that this was wise, that it would help. But he could not. He could only hope that Maitimo was not watching him too closely. 

Findekáno had not looked closely before, mind too full of other things. The first night, the details of injury had been part of all that had been beyond him, what Naicë and the others tended; and when Irissë tended to it this morning he had been too bound up in Maitimo's distress to look. Findekáno had thought there was one wound there, but there were - 

More than one. And more than one kind. 

There were the marks of teeth, old and new and more than one set - some, those that seemed like those on his neck and wrist, sharp and deep and animal, and others . . . more like those of their own kind, and Findekáno could not think beyond knowing that, could not make that mean anything beyond a sickening twist in his stomach. 

And around the torn skin that had been stitched closed there was bruising, enough to almost keep everything else from mind - especially if your eye was caught by the places Naicë or Nerwen had closed with needle and thread. And maybe before Findekánohad been able to stop there, to see only the sutures neat and closed and let his eyes skim over the rest, but now - 

Underneath that, more clear even than at Maitimo's throat, there was the red that marked out - if you looked - the shape of a hand. A hand that burned where it touched, set full against skin as if to hold - 

And the crescent marks of nails, claws but as if they were at the tips of fingers, and those digging deep into skin and beneath. 

They were older, among those that had . . . not healed, but closed, and now began to heal, but they were there: dark, dull but somehow still painful. 

Almost without meaning to, Findekáno looked to Maitimo's other leg, where there had been nothing that had needed to be sewn closed - and among the shadows of other burns, and marks that had not needed stitching or cloth wrapped around them to keep them from bleeding, he could see the shadow of the same hand and nails. 

From there, Findekáno's eyes were drawn to the trail of other marks he might not have . . . understood before, marks - scars - that were the same sullen dark as the traces of those hands, moving up from them - 

He did not know what he would have said, next; he did not know how to move from seeing that, and understanding it. But Maitimo's voice, still rough and quiet, jarred Findekáno's thoughts away and made him look up.

Maitimo still looked away, over his own left arm, his eyes fixed on the ground. It took a moment for the words to make sense. To realize that Maitimo had asked him, _Why did you come?_

Findekáno could not answer that. He could not comprehend it. He could make sense of the words, he could . . . hear what Maitimo said, know the meaning of one word after the other and how together they formed a question but it . . . made no sense. He could not understand it. 

_Why did you come?_ Maitimo had asked him and Findekáno felt his mind stumble over the words like some clumsy foal that had never used its legs before because the question did not make sense. 

So he could not answer. He could not even ask what Maitimo ment. He could only look at him in silence, in confusion, and wait. 

Maitimo's gaze moved to his own hand, and he said, "You could have been killed." 

His voice was ragged, full of the broken half-seconds of silence where the shape of words and will to speak continued but his voice gave way, and then scraped itself back together. It clearly hurt to speak, and yet - 

"You could have been killed," Maitimo said. "Worse, you could have been caught, they could have - _why did you come_?" 

And yet that was the question; it did not change, the words did not become something else, and Findekáno could not make them . . . mean something else. 

" - to find you," Findekáno said, at last, the only answer there could be. He caught Maitimo's hand again, and when Maitimo looked up, briefly, Findekáno could see his eyes were full, and he shook his head as he looked away. "Tyenya - I came to _find you_." 

"You should have left me," Maitimo said, still looking away, voice still broken and scraping, and at first the words were so strange, and wrong, that Findekáno could find no answer. Maitimo said, again, "You should have left me th - " 

" _No_ ," Findekáno managed, and it was louder than he meant, enough that he glanced at the canvas between them and the rest of the tent, with the distracted hope that no one would make the mistake of coming to see why he had said it. That he would not have to then make them go _away_. 

"Tyenya, Maitinya - _no_ ," he said, forcing himself to keep his voice low, hoping the intensity carried nevertheless. "I - " 

" _I left you_ ," Maitimo said over him, pulling his hand away, voice breaking on the words and Findekáno stopped, because - 

Because, _ai,_ _ai, Maitimo, melindo_ , he thought, _not_ now _, you are not well enough for this now_ \- but he stumbled on how to say that, and Maitimo had not stopped.

"I left you," Maitimo repeated, mostly the whisper of a voice that gave out, staring at his hand where it now rested on his knee. "I left you, I abandoned you - Atar burned the ships and I did not stop him, I should have, I could have stopped him and I _did not_ , I was a coward and I did not stop him and I _left you_ , you should not have risked this for - " 

Findekáno stopped him. He caught Maitimo's face gently with one hand and put two fingers to his mouth to stop him, and then - 

Went still, as what he heard caught him. 

Because he had already begun the movement before the words came out, before they tumbled into each other and were . . . 

. . . .not what he expected. 

There were words among them he did expect, maybe had half-shaped answers to - though truly he had not meant to speak of this now, thought it would wait, _should_ wait, Maitimo was _not_ well enough for this now - and so some of those words were what Findekáno expected, but not all of them, and what they said, what all of them said together, was . . . 

. . . not what he expected. It was not what he expected, and that made him stumble into his own silence, just as he put his fingers to Maitimo's mouth.

Maitimo stopped. Pressed ravaged lips together and stopped, and would not look up. 

And Findekáno knew that he . . . should say that this could wait, should wait; he should say that this was not the time, that it did not matter. And it should wait, and it did not, should not matter right now, but he - 

The words were not what he expected. And the words told him . . . something, something other than what he had thought, and he - 

He had made his peace with what had happened. With seeing the ships burn, across the dark water. Findekáno had faced what it meant, and made his peace with what must have happened, and now - 

Now what Maitimo said - 

Findekáno had made peace with what the burning ships meant. 

With what he had thought they meant. 

"Maitinya," he heard himself say, quietly. Knowing he should say it did not matter and hearing himself say this instead. "Maitinya, tell me what happened. Please." 

When Maitimo spoke, his voice was dull and quiet, breath rasping between sounds. 

"There is nothing to tell," he said. "We landed, and when I asked Atar how many we would spare to take the ships back, he said none, and ordered them burned, and I did not stop them, I did not stop him, I did _nothing,_ I -"

Findekáno stopped him again, as Maitimo's voice began to crack and worsen. Stopped him and tried to think, when all he wanted to do was laugh, and laugh, until laughter sent him sprawling on the ground, and laugh still with the sudden overwhelming relief of it. 

_Aiya, aiya laita Elentári hanta Iluvátar -_

His own head was light, with the lightness that could be dangerous, could make one a fool with the need to laugh in relief that was thoughtless, but whole and deep and complete. And he could not let himself be that, he could not - 

And he wanted to laugh, with that relief, but he could not: he could not think how to explain, to make sense of it, if he did. How to say anything that Maitimo could understand, here and now, like this. 

How to say _I thought you had done it, I thought your hand had been with theirs, I thought_ \- how to admit that, with all that it meant, with all that it said. 

_I thought you had left me, and I decided I did not care, but I thought you had_. 

To say _I thought that of you_ , now, and here: he did not know how. How to say it, and then how to explain mingled shame that he had and joy that he had been _wrong_ , to ask forgiveness for that and then how - 

How to make that better than . . . anything else. How to explain how much better that was, his relief in it. When Maitimo so clearly thought - 

It was too much and he could not encompass it and could not find any way to say it, to grasp more than what maybe was the core of it. Maybe that, maybe he could make sense of that, and maybe he could make Maitimo understand that. 

Because that - he did need that. Because the echo of _you should have left me_ was in his ears, and if this was why Maitimo thought so - 

It would not have been true anyway. It would never, ever have been true. But if that was _why_ he thought it then maybe Findekáno could make clear that even so, it was wrong. And maybe that much he could draw out of his now-spinning mind and into something Maitimo could hear. 

So instead Findekáno swallowed laughter, fought the lightness in his head and put his fingers to Maitimo's mouth again. Said, "Maitinya - shhh, stop, tyenya stop, look at me. Please, melindo, melindyo, look at me." 

He caught Maitimo's face between his hands, and after a moment Maitimo did look at him. Wary with shame, but Maitimo did look at him. 

"Tyenya," Findekáno said, when Maitimo would meet his eyes. "No, tyenya. You did not. _You_ did not burn the ships. _You_ did not leave me." 

For that was the core of it, after all. That was the truth. What mattered. 

Maitimo shook his head, the movement tight, and said, "That does not change it, Káno, that does not ma - " 

" _To me it does_ , Maitinya," Findekáno said, over him, and Maitimo stopped, and looked down again. "To me it is _everything_ , Maitimo. _Kindler witness_ , it is everything." 

Because he could say that: that was true and needed no other thought but his behind it. They could speak of it more later, maybe, if needed, but it didn't - this was the core. The heart of it. What mattered. 

" _You_ did not leave me," he repeated, repeated that truth. "And I would not leave you - I _will_ never, tyenya. Never." 

He leaned close and kissed Maitimo's temple and said, "If ever I have not come to you yet, it is _only_ because something greater than I am prevents me and I have not found my way through them. Yet." 

Maitimo did not answer, not in words; he caught Findekáno's right hand and cradled it, turning his face into Findekáno's palm and pressing his mouth against it, against Findekáno's wrist. His breath seemed to catch painfully, and after a moment Findekáno slid off the stool to kneel, and move close enough to draw Maitimo's forehead to rest against his shoulder. 

"Peace, shhhh, Maitinya," he said, cradling the back of Maitimo's head with his free hand as Maitimo's arm went around his neck to clutch at his other shoulder, trying to hold tightly and yet still so weak that it still stabbed at Findekáno to feel it. "Tyenya, melindo, I found you, and you are here, with me, and I am here, and you are home." 

Gently, he guided Maitimo to sit up, a little, enough to look at him again. "All is well, melindonya," he said, reaching up to brush the wet tracks of tears off Maitimo's cheeks, and added, "And soon you can be clean, and warm, and you can rest again." 

It seemed as if Maitimo wished to speak, but could not; instead he found Findekáno's hand again, and held it, and nodded. 

Naicë had been certain that Maitimo would not be able to bathe himself, and she had been right; Findekáno was grateful he had insisted on the chair, for even sitting up for more than a moment or two seemed to tax Maitimo's strength. 

He was also glad that they had left several dry towels, for even with the warm water and the heat from both braziers and the stove, he could tell that Maitimo chilled easily, and after a moment Findekáno unfolded two to use as coverings for whatever part of Maitimo he was not washing clean. 

Findekáno recognized the soap left as the gentlest stuff, without even herbs added for scent; even so he felt wary and cautious with it and with the pressure of the cloth, for Maitimo's skin seemed as fragile as onionskin. And no amount of care could keep soap from stinging where scratches and scabs did some away, or at Maitimo's fingertips in the places where his nails had torn. Maitimo did not seem to react much, but Findekáno knew that it had to be so. 

There were places where the dirt seemed to be embedded in Maitimo's skin and for now Findekáno did not dare to scrub at it, only used the soap and water and cloth until the water that came away seemed clear, and a clean cloth picked up no more dirt. 

He felt a strange mingling of comfort and dismay - or, no, they did not mingle, they did not mix, but each feeling existed whole and complete and yet side by side with the other. Dismay because each moment and movement could only make more brutally clear the tracks of pain and starvation -

And comfort because it was still Maitimo; he was still _there_ , it was still him, alive, still his breath Findekáno could hear, still his skin Findekáno touched and made clean, and each touch another proof that it was. 

It eased an emptiness that had been in him for what seemed a very long time, with each moment carved resentfully into his memory. 

He did not trouble to speak. He might have, another time, might have filled the silence with the sound of idle chatter - he might again, some later time. There were silences that were hostile or unsettled, and improved for such sound. 

But right now to do that seemed an effort it did not often represent, and he did not think Maitimo could listen, could derive meaning from such sounds. And the silence did not seem so fraught as that to Findekáno, and he hoped that was true. 

He made certain that Maitimo could lean against the chair as much as possible; that as much as possible, Maitimo could put as little effort as possible to keeping himself upright. And he was careful with Maitimo's right arm, thought it was hard to be careful enough for such a thing, as the bruising spread deep and ugly all around his shoulder and down towards his chest. 

Either he did well enough, or Maitimo was too weary to react to what pain he did cause, and Findekáno hoped it was the first. 

But he was not sure. 

He used the cloths to clean Maitimo's hair as best he could that way, though that he would have to do properly some other time - later. It would take too long to do now and, he thought, likely risk making Maitimo too cold. What he did with the cloths still helped; what was left was more likely soap than dirt, and the soap would keep. 

As he bent to wet a cloth to wash away soap from Maitimo's calf, Findekáno realized that he could hear Maitimo's breath catching; looking up, he saw that Maitimo's face was wet, though Maitimo was already shaking his head, a little, and moving to cover his face with one hand. 

"No," he said, voice as ragged as before, "no it is - there is nothing, I am only - " 

He stopped, looking down, and Findekáno waited. Maitimo touched one fingertip to a line of sutures near his knee. 

"You were dead," he said, barely more than a whisper, voice scraping broken over the words. "I knew you were dead, and I knew it was - " he stopped, and then said, "I knew you were dead, you were gone, and you are not. And I - " 

He stopped again, eyes raising for a moment but then seeming driven to look away, again, over Findekáno's shoulder, blinking as if to drive tears away. 

And what Findekáno wanted to do was to pull him close; what Findekáno wanted to do was to push away the stool and draw Maitimo down onto the ground where he could hold him, close and tightly, for as long as either of them wanted, and he could not do that. Knew he could not. 

Knew it would hurt Maitimo, _hurt_ his shoulder and who knew what else and so Findekáno could not, and that made everything . . . hard, because that wish was almost all of what could fit in his mind and his body and he had to push it away. 

Had to take the poor second choice of moving to one knee, closer, and being careful as he reached out to draw Maitimo closer in turn, to cradle Maitimo's head against his own and say, "I am right here, Maitimo. Maitinya. I am _right here_. And so are you. And you are safe, and all is well, tyenya, I promise you." 

Maitimo held tightly to his arm and for a moment Findekáno stayed there, stroking his hand a little over Maitimo's damp hair, Maitimo's cheek wet against his. "All is well, melindo," he murmured again, and it was not a lie: it was, or he would make it so. 

Then he moved to kiss Maitimo's cheek and his temple. "Come tyenya, let me help you into the water, it will warm you while I find clean clothing." 

Another folded towel provided something to rest against, and though it took careful help to get Maitimo into the tub, once settled the warmth of the water did seem to allow him some ease - such that he settled entirely against the support of the wooden tub, water closing almost over his shoulders, with perhaps the easiest exhale Findekáno had yet heard. 

He did not think Maitimo meant to close his eyes, but they fluttered closed anyway, and when his breathing stayed even and calm even after a moment or two, Findekáno felt able to leave him there half-drowsing for a moment. He bent and kissed Maitimo's temple, in case he could still hear, and murmured that he would be back. 

It was a little brighter in the main tent, enough that Findekáno had to blink once or twice as he stepped out to see Naicë waiting. 

He did not search to see if Naicë gave any sign that she had heard what had passed between Maitimo and himself: he did not want to know if she had, and if he did not look, he could not find out. Somehow he no more wanted the relief of knowing that she had not than the discomfort of knowing that she had, and simply not knowing the answer at all meant he did not have to confront either. He could ignore it, for now. 

He did not know why that was how he felt, and he was too tired to care much. He could think about it later, if it were important, and he thought it might not be anyway. In the morning; in the brighter light. After rest. 

It seemed amiss that he felt so weary; he had done little today to merit it. 

Naicë said nothing of what had passed in the bathing alcove either; only gave him clean invalid's clothes, the same kind of loose leggings as before and the wrapping shirt, though this one with the right sleeve taken off. 

"Have care that none of the cloth is folded under the brace," she said quietly, and showed him what she meant him to avoid, where the brace would sit to hold Maitimo's arm still against his side. "His skin is fragile enough it could break, just now, with uneven pressure." 

Findekáno only nodded. 

When he had taken it off this time, he had taken a brief moment to look at the brace, at how Nerwen had assembled it, and marvelled she had managed it so quickly: it must have been something she had used before, and he had simply not seen or noticed if he had. It was sturdy and in place it kept the shoulder from moving at all, but it seemed as comfortable as such a thing possibly could be. 

Every place that it touched Maitimo's skin was padded carefully and covered with swatches of soft fur, even the underside of the straps that secured it. It would not be impossible to have some edge catch skin or dig into flesh, but one would have to make some deliberate effort. 

As he took the clothes, Findekáno glanced at the tent and saw changes, though he had not marked anyone coming or going while in the other alcove. But before there had been two of the narrow simple beds, where now one of them - the one Maitimo had used - was gone; in its place was a rather wider one beside the other that remained. They were both of them remade with clean bedding, and another heavy blanket had been added to Maitimo's in answer to the cooling weather. 

At the new bed, Findekáno did give Naicë a sharp look, not sure what if anything he should read in it. But she was not looking at him, and he could not bring himself to ask, nor even find the shape of the question he would be asking. 

And truth told, it would almost certainly be better if there were more space for Maitimo to move, and the wider bed would be sturdier. 

Maitimo seemed nearly asleep when Findekáno went back to him, enough that he startled when Findekáno said his name. And in that moment Findekáno cursed himself, silently, and wondered what he could have done differently to make it not so - but though it took that moment, it took only that moment. 

A moment mostly of Maitimo's eyes searching Findekáno's face, and seeming to understand what he saw. There, maybe, the water helped a little - it was warm, still, and smelled faintly of the herbs crushed among the salt stirred into it. 

For a moment, as his body unwound from that short seizure of uncertainty, Findekáno thought Maitimo would say something; then he stopped, and shook his head, just faintly. And though Findekáno could not wholly see the cause, there was just then such great new weariness on Maitimo's face and in the sense of him that Findekáno paused, almost without thought, and bent to kiss his head, right hand resting briefly against the side of his neck. 

As if somehow that might help. 

Maitimo caught his hand, and held it, turned his face into Findekáno's palm. It seemed this time almost as if he did say something, but there was no strength to it, no voice that Findekáno could hear - only the faint movement of air and Maitimo's mouth against his skin. 

And when he made a quiet, questioning sound, Maitimo looked up at him for an instant before his eyes closed, and he shook his head. 

Findekáno chose to leave it, brushed a hand over Maitimo's hair instead. As near to clean as made no mind, and now starting to dry, there were half-curves that showed the haphazard way it had been cut, and Findekáno wondered if he should say something, if Maitimo would want it fixed. Or if that would merely be one more thing he was asking of Maitimo that Maitimo did not have the strength right now to give; if it would merely be a burden. 

Perhaps later. 

For now he only said, "Come, Maitinya, let's get you dry so that you can rest." 

By the time that Maitimo was dry and dressed it was clear that he was also once again in pain. And pride or not, Findekáno came very near to simply carrying him back to the bed, for even with help exhaustion seemed to beat at him. When he sank onto the bed to sit, he was very pale and Findekáno thought he could feel him shivering faintly. 

Naicë helped Findekáno reset the brace on Maitimo's shoulder, or maybe it would be truer to say that she directed Findekáno on how it worked - for at the same time he needed the instruction, and yet also it was clear that Maitimo was not comfortable with the nestandë's touch. He did not recoil, object or obstruct her from doing so, but Findekáno could feel his unease, and he suspected Naicë could as well. 

There was also a brief sense of hesitation or unhappiness when Findekáno went back to the alcove to retrieve the other two braziers, but by now he was certain that Maitimo was shivering and if it was not only because of cold, a chill in the air could not _help_. The rain outside was not a storm, and the wind was not high, but it was still far cooler than the night before and liable to get more so before the dawn. 

Maitimo did not protest, and while Findekáno brought the braziers back to beside the beds Naicë gave Maitimo another bowl of the white broth, which he was able to hold nearly for himself. And then she gave him a cup of the stronger hasama against pain, the one that brought sleep with its relief. 

Findekáno realized by now he could recognize the sharpness of its scent. 

As he came back Maitimo looked to him with a relief in his face; Findekáno saw that he leaned heavily on his left hand, as if it was all that held him up. 

Findekáno folded the coverings aside and helped Maitimo to lie down, stumbling in his mind again over how light he was even as Findekáno took most of his weight. Lying down seemed to bring yet more relief, for which Findekáno was grateful. 

Naicë went about the tent putting out the lights except for the one left on the low table between the beds, and the lamp that she picked up and took with her as she moved to the couch at the other side of the tent. 

It would be midway through the second of the three night watches, Findekáno thought. And it seemed clear in her manner that Naicë did not expect that he would wish to speak to her, so she was settling in for the rest of the watch, now that her charge would sleep. 

It was perhaps ungracious of him, but she was not mistaken in that. Not that he held her any ill will, or anything but gratitude - how could he? - but yet it felt like anything she could say, almost anything at all, would add one more weight to the balance of his thoughts that already felt precarious and unsteady. He felt he did not have enough left in him to shoulder that, and that it would be a mistake to try. 

And that it seemed that she knew this already only made that truth more. 

As he covered Maitimo with the blankets, Findekáno could hear the rain, outside, striking the waxed outer canvas. There was a comfort to the sound. The air would be cleaner, tomorrow. It would be easier to breathe, and the Sun would be brighter, and maybe the clarity would last even into the night, and the stars. 

He moved to stand up from where he sat on the bed, and felt Maitimo catch his arm; he stopped at once and waited. 

It took a moment, and two careful breaths, before Maitimo raised his eyes from where his hand rested on Findekáno's wrist and said, " - stay with me?" his voice quiet and the words tentative. And then his gaze dropped again, as if he could not help it, as he added, "Where I can reach you. Please." 

The request was almost halting, if asking were difficult, and yet each word said clearly, as if that which was asked was desperately needed; and worst, as if there was a great fear of being denied. 

"Of course," Findekáno said, the words coming without thought, almost faster than the last of the words in the request in the need to reassure. 

He did not wonder until after he said it what Naicë might think; and then he knew he did not care. In truth he wondered if he needed to think of it - _someone_ had brought the wider bed - but even if he did, he did not care. 

There had been . . . things he had assumed, and he would not have been farther than the other bed, but that did not matter; he discarded those assumptions, gave them no more thought and did not think, either, to ask Naicë or to wonder if she had heard. 

If Maitimo wanted him to stay within reach, he would stay within reach. There was no more to say about it, or to consider. 

Or no more about whether he would, at least. Some other considerations, there might be. 

He bent down and kissed Maitimo's forehead, carefully. "A moment, tyenya." 

Findekáno stood and moved the other bed away, well out of the way, pulling the blanket off of it and taking up the pillow so that he would not have to disarrange the blankets on the wider bed. Then he put out the light and rid himself of his shoes before he lay down on his side to Maitimo's left. 

Close enough to indeed be within easy reach. 

And he felt, and in the faint light could see, that the breath Maitimo let go after he had done so was deeper, and took more of the wire-wound tension from him. Maitimo turned a little towards Findekáno and reached for his hand; Findekáno caught his, kissed his knuckles and then drew his hand over so that it could rest in Findekáno's right hand, fingers interlaced. 

Maitimo closed his eyes, as Findekáno brushed one half-curl of hair back from his forehead with his free hand. For a moment it seemed he struggled to say something, but Findekáno stroked his cheek and - carefully - the side of his neck with a soft _shhhhh_ , and Maitimo seemed to give up - to let that breath go and to give up the fight against exhaustion and the hasama that Naicë made. 

"Sleep, melindyo," Findekáno murmured. "I am here; I will be here tomorrow." 

Then he settled his own pillow where it would let him keep Maitimo's hand in his, pulled the blanket he had taken from the other bed haphazardly over himself, and that was the last Findekáno knew for some time, as sleep took hold of him as well. 

_iii._

In the end the true reason that Naicë knew it was past time for her to rest when Artanis came to the tent was how clearly she felt Artanis' determination to make her do so, given that she had not meant to turn her attention that way. The child's will should not have commanded so much of her attention so easily, should not have echoed quite so loud, when Naicë had not turned her mind that way to begin with. 

But it did. 

Naicë had been attempting to gather some sense from her now-deeply-sleeping charge of what parts of the horrors in his mind were most likely to fade easily, and what parts would linger, even without being replenished. Attempting and, to a large degree, failing. 

For all that she had seen in service to Lóretári and all the work that she had done, Naicë had not before now turned her thoughts to the wreckage one of the Ainur could do with deliberate attention and particular malice. And it was . . . different. 

She had seen great depth of horror, but in a strange way that horror had been impersonal, general: a mechanism for turning out the tools the Enemy wanted, and if in some ways that very detachment was its own hideous nightmare, there were parts of the mind and spirit it left untouched.

They did the victim little good, without the help of those with deep wisdom in the healing of such things, for those parts of mind and spirit were _wholly_ untouched and as such they were stunted and neglected. And as she thought on the matter Naicë considered that it might merely be a matter of the familiar, as opposed to the new - for as she thought she could not say what was done there was less horrible, less obscene. 

It served their Enemy's purpose. It gave him the tools he wanted, and tools that would breed him more tools, would increase themselves for him, even without his attention, dragging living spirits into living hell until they were freed again, maimed and twisted. 

In Lórellin Naicë had seen those. And it was horrible. She could only imagine there would be more, and more, and there had been enough already - but now the Enemy would want more bodies to spend in whatever he did next. More tools to obey him. 

Still. That horror she was familiar with, and it was . . . general, and indifferent. 

Here, the malice was precise and deliberate, and tuned to the mind and soul it attacked - and it had no purpose, except to hurt and harm and be certain that the victim could not gather himself to resist or respond; could not do anything to defend against what was done next. 

There was no purpose to it. That perhaps was what left her shaken. There was no purpose to what had been done except to hurt the one it was done to, and perhaps through him, hurt others as well. They gained nothing by what they did except the suffering of the one they did it to. 

Naicë had known that their Enemies were capable of this; she had known, even, that they were inclined to it. But this was the first time she had seen it for herself, and even knowing, it unbalanced her. 

She also felt out of her depth, and as if she did not know what came next. She felt young, and lost again in a way she had not for a very long time, and in a way she could not afford. She did not truly know what anything she could observe truly meant, and grappled at intuitions she could not entirely ground in knowledge. 

For instance, it could be said that Nelyafinwë's survival - that he knew who he was, who others were, that he could still speak - and his recovery over even these two days were testaments to the strength of his fëa. And Naicë felt that was true. 

Yet Naicë felt certain that strength had done him no favours. That his tormentors had measured it carefully, and pushed him to its precipice, restraining themselves only at the last in the name of some future cruelty, some purpose in which they could use him to cause more suffering, a purpose that needed both he and others to know who he was to enact. 

Short of that, they had done everything they could in torment and in the destruction of those ways the mind and spirit made to defend itself, in such extremity. And they had a great skill and hideous wisdom in that much. 

As far as Naicë could see, their only mistake had been both not considering that Nolofinwë's son would be mad and wild enough to attempt a rescue, nor predicting that another power would be kind enough to let it succeed - whether the Eagle-king himself, or his lord. A thin strand of mistake. Otherwise they had made none; otherwise, all that they had done had unfolded exactly as they wished. Or so it felt. 

In Lórellin there had been someone she could ask, testing her intuition against wisdom far greater than her own. Here there was only herself. 

She could not help but fear that their Enemies had learned a great deal, as well - more than they might have, from someone more frail, someone who might have folded in on themselves and collapsed sooner. They would have already known everything they could learn from the Avari, of course, and from the time before there had been any division between Quendi to begin with but there were ways in which those who came back from Aman could not help but be different. Naicë knew that and more than that she even knew why, which few enough of her people might. Why Valinórë had changed them, and what it had changed. 

Oh, there was much they could have learned, holding Fëanáro's eldest child. Though to what use, what purpose - that Naicë did not know. 

Naicë wished that in these matters she were not the oldest and wisest here, for she did not feel wise enough for this. She felt young, and lost. She did. 

And yet as well and at the same time - she was old enough that she remembered Finwë's grandson as a child. She was old enough to remember his father as a child, and his grandfather when he was new, but right now what she could not escape was remembering her nautamo that way. 

A small shape of brightness and curiosity and interest, his mother's delight and his father's pride, his grandfather's joy - and Finwë had been overjoyed, and Fëanáro so very proud. Nerdanel had been enraptured by her firstborn, and even Mahtan had been drawn out of his forge by his first grandchild. 

A quick and affectionate child who wished to know everything, and listened to everything, learned easily and quickly and loved without any thought of restraint. Whose greatest delight was to have the grown men and women about him talk to him, and show him things, and be pleased with his efforts to learn the lessons they would teach. 

His father most of all. 

Naicë could remember that, all too clearly, though she doubted he would remember her. 

And she could not stop from remembering his mother, in Estë's garden: what Nerdanel had said, and the gaping wounds of the heart those words had dropped from, the grief and the anger. Naicë could not think which would be more cruel: if one of the Valar did tell Nerdanel what happened here in Middle-earth, or if they refused. Perhaps it was all one; perhaps there was no respite from cruelty, in this. 

Given such thoughts it may have been inevitable that Naicë's mind would prefer to light to Artanis' presence, both bright and solid all at once, like a white cliff in clear light, than continue on its own path. Even if that presence brought with it both the annoyance at its intent, and the awareness that the child was right. For if she could not discipline her thoughts and shepherd her attention, then Naicë did need to rest and soon, whether she liked it or not. 

She was tired, and she had not eaten enough food nor taken enough water this day, and everything she said to others held true for herself as well. And she knew that all in one thought, as Arafinwë's only daughter approached. 

Yet the same distraction and weariness that meant she noticed the girl before she came to the tent also meant that Naicë felt the one who followed, some few steps behind; so before Artanis could say aught, do more than step into the tent, Naicë held up one hand and said, "Your father's brother is coming." 

In truth, Nolofinwë came with no little courtesy: he could restrain himself and his effect on others, and, unlike some of his strength of will, he chose to do so more often than not - and he was doing so now. It meant that although Naicë was aware of him, thanks to her unruly thought, he did not intrude, nor demand attention and reaction from her, or from anyone else. 

He also came without attendants and without announcement beyond a polite greeting and request to enter when he reached the tent and Artanis met him at the door. It set a particular tone, and one of consideration. Naicë appreciated that.

And given the sharpness of what she had written him this morning, it was perhaps not surprising that she received a look of mixed dry amusement and tolerance with only a shading of defensiveness, when her king did step into the tent, pushing back the hood he had raised against the rain, and then setting aside the cloak he wore over one of the chests. 

He looked like his father, Nolofinwë Arakáno. They all three of them did, Naicë mused; for all that Indis gave her second child her golden hair, Finwë Noldoran was stamped in their eyes and their faces in equal measure. But his second child had been his tallest, if not his wisest, and was perhaps the most clearly his father's son at a glance. 

He was also weary, and anxious, and wary of her, a little. He wore the same clothes she had seen on him the day before, and she doubted he had slept over the night. She knew he often did without sleep for a day or two at a time. 

It was the fashion now, Naicë knew, to rise when a king entered somewhere - another thing taken from the Vanyar, though she had noted without ever remarking aloud that Fëanáro had objected less to this. But she had not done so for Finwë and she was far too tired to do so for his son, here and now. Even if it did mean she had to look up at him - well, she would have to do that standing, too. 

"I come as a father and a kinsman to inquire after the health of my son and my nephew," Nolofinwë said, the same mixture of wry amusement and defensiveness and tolerance in his voice, and briefly Artanis' mind was bright with suppressed amusement. "So you need not be fearsome." 

"I am far too small to be fearsome," Naicë retorted, because she was also too weary not to, and even he was, in this moment and to her, painfully young. "As you are well aware, Finwion. But I will forebear to be sharp, at least." 

Though it was some relief to hear him use the familial term for Nelyafinwë. It suggested that he would not choose courses that would set himself and his son at violent odds, nor require her to navigate the troubled waters of her duty to a nautamo and her duty to her king. She could be glad of that. 

She would navigate those waters if she had to. But she would prefer to avoid it. 

Naicë nodded to the bed. "They are both asleep, and I do not expect them to wake for some time - either of them," she said, as he followed her gaze, and she watched him as he took in the fact that they slept on the same bed, that a narrower one was set aside and abandoned, and indeed that someone had brought in a bed of a size clearly meant to be shared. 

That had been at her order. It had been near painfully clear to her, watching Nelyafinwë thus far, that what comfort he could grasp and what safety he could believe arose directly from Findekáno's presence and proximity - and indeed if he could touch Findekáno so much the better. This was not surprising, save that as she had said to Findekáno earlier, Naicë had been afraid that Sauron's deceits might have deprived his victim of even that. If anything, she was still relieved that was not so. 

But still: it was very, very clear that much was true. If Findekáno was near, if Nelyafinwë could reach him and touch him, he derived as much comfort as he could receive, just now. 

It would be easier to do that in a bed that was shared. If that meant it was no longer possible for anyone to pretend Fëanárion and Nolofinwion were not espoused - 

That was no concern of Naicë's. 

That did not mean, however, that she did not know there were pretenses that would be made impossible; in some ways, she was curious now to see how Nolofinwë would react, for she knew at least in outward show he had been among those pretending. He and Anairë both, along with their second child - though, Naicë considered, not their third. 

For the moment her king remained reasonably impassive, and his presence remained quiet. There were shadows of complex concern and something troubled about his eyes, but there were reasons enough that could be, even in this moment. Naicë chose not to search further just now. 

Findekáno had been careful in covering Nelyafinwë to keep him warm, but one could still see his face and his left hand and forearm, and that was enough. A handful of liquid meals was not sufficient do anything for skin stretched tight over skull, nor to change the skeletal concave of his forearm; a day and a night meant none of his wounds bled, and bathing meant he was finally clean, but so little time did nothing for the burns and cuts on the face turned towards Findekáno beside him, the torn nails on his fingers, the raw cracked skin at the corners of his eyes and mouth, or the sunken dark circles around his eyes. 

He was thin enough, and the coverings thick enough, that there was barely even movement with his breath. 

Findekáno lay beside him, more negligently settled on his side with Nelyafinwë's hand lying between his own, and the blanket only half pulled over himself, twisted and sideways. Naicë had not troubled to fix it; she was weary and had not wished to rise, and between the fact that Findekáno had not undressed to lie down and the braziers and their heat, he would be unlikely to feel any chill. Not enough to disturb him, at least. 

One needed little in the way of insight to read any of what lay there in that image to read, either of entanglement or of suffering. 

Naicë went on, "If not for the drink I have given him, I do not think Nelyafinwë would sleep in any kind of peace, but fortunately I have some skill yet and he will have at least some hours of rest. As for your son, I deem he has more of such peace now than he has had for some time." 

How long that would remain the case, she could not even begin to guess, for there were many, many things that might come that would trouble it - the father standing watching him now not least. But for the moment, Naicë could sense both the bone-depth of Findekáno's weariness and the corresponding depth of the rest that had settled on him since he had laid himself down beside his cousin; the willing surrender to a relief of a hunger long suffered. 

In truth, it made it more difficult not to rest herself. 

As she said this, Nolofinwë gave her a long look, head tilted a little to the side and Naicë was well aware that he was searching her as he looked at her. 

Then he said, "You are weary, nestandë." He put a little weight on _you_ , and she returned his glance with an ironic one of her own. 

"Yes, your brother's daughter is already here to tell me that," Naicë retorted, but without heat. She supposed it was his duty to be concerned with that in any case. "In case I had not noticed." 

Then she waved a hand. "Sit," she said. "Ask what no one ever wishes to ask me." 

Nolofinwë did sit, and accepted with murmured thanks the cup of yullas that Artanis gave him - a night-time blend, meant to soothe rather than to awake. Artanis must have pulled it out of private stores, as Naicë caught the scent of flowers in it that she had not yet seen growing on Middle-earth. She had not noticed that Artanis had set about making the drink, but then, she was tired and Artanis she could always be certain did not need her to pay close mind. 

After he had taken a drink from his cup, Nolofinwë said, "Instead, nestandë, perhaps you can tell me what I should know." 

Naicë almost wanted to laugh, though it was not a kind or joyful laugh - it was something else, some other kind of noise she wanted to make. It was a clever question; it was the kind of question his father might have asked, at his best, when Finwë was most clearly using his mind and what wisdom he had acquired, instead of ignoring it because of the uncomfortable truths he did not wish to see and could not avoid if he looked with such clear sight. 

She thought maybe even that Nolofinwë caught some of what she felt, in that. And ai, he was young, and yet his child slept but a little way apart here, so deep in dreams that they could speak like this with no fear that he would hear it; his eldest child, more than full-grown, but still his child, who had come so close to spending his own life very far from all aid that he had not asked for. 

That would be a burden.

And ai, too, so little of what Nolofinwë was burdened with, Naicë knew, came from any deed of his own, any choice he would have made without someone else forcing his hand. If the consequences that came from making any other choice had not been what he could not accept, could not endure. 

_Tell me what I should know._ It was not the worst way to think of that question. Far from the worst. And that was what made the ache in her chest. 

She sighed, as she too took the cup from Artanis that she was offered. She said, "Stars and their Kindler, what can I tell you," and the question was half of herself, and not much of a question at all. But it was indeed hard to know where to start. 

With a gesture that acknowledged his niece, Nolofinwë said, "Artanis has advised me not to send yet to his brothers," and Naicë briefly covered her face with one hand, the hand that did not hold her cup. 

It was not true to say she had not thought about Fëanáro's other sons; but it was true to say that she had pushed those thoughts away and intended to continue to do so until she had no other choice, for all the problems they represented. They were trouble to be borrowed later - they, and their acts, and their needs, and their wounds, most of them unseen, most of them of the mind, all of them strewing the future with traps to fall into. 

But it perhaps gave her somewhere to begin, as must have been his intent. It was clearly something weighing on his mind, and she could not blame him for that. 

"He has not asked for them," she told her king, simply. "He has not asked _of_ them." 

And at that, the concern in Nolofinwë's eyes was no longer a shadow. 

Everyone knew that Nelyafinwë Fëanárion spent his life concerned with his younger brothers. It would be impossible not to know it. In Tirion often it had seemed to many, if not most, that once each of them had grown, their doings and their state concerned their eldest brother more than it concerned their father, so long as they came when he called. Fëanáro had doted on his children as _children_ , but seemed less concerned with them when they were grown, save when he wanted them; Nelyafinwë had seemed always concerned with what they did, and how they were. 

Naicë shrugged with one shoulder. "In truth he has said almost nothing at all. He has not asked anything of us, nor spoken to us beyond a silent nod. If he is asked or directed to do something, he obeys, or at least tries as best he can; he is very weak, and his body is very worn, and that clouds and slows his mind, so that there are things he struggles to hear and understand, let alone do." 

Nolofinwë looked troubled, but did not interrupt, holding his cup near his face after he drank and maybe finding some comfort in the scent. 

Naicë went on, "He has as yet only once spoken at all above a few words, and only when he and your son were alone in the bathing alcove - " she gestured to it, " - and that was to tell Findekáno he should not have come for him; that saving him was not worth the risk Findekáno took to do it, and that he had deserved to be abandoned to his captivity for failing to stop his father from burning the Falmari ships." 

She heard Artanis' breath catch, though she did not look in her direction. She did not need to; she could well imagine what would be written there. 

Had it been any of the others, she would not have spoken so openly; but it would not take the child all that long to see the same self-loathing in Nelyafinwë that would drive him to say so, and this way, perhaps, she would already know to have care and to see that others did as well. 

And she would know the shape of its cause, and that Naicë deemed only just. Fëanáro's child should have some recompense for the risk he took, and should have his name removed from a deed he took no part in. 

Naicë did not think Nelyafinwë would be able to take much comfort in that, or that he would even see and understand it as a meaningful truth - she had felt from him all that he saw and believed, speaking as he had to Findekáno. And in a cruel kind of irony, the same quality of mind and fëa that meant he could refuse to follow his father's command to burn the ships would make it difficult to convince him that his failure to do more to stop Fëanáro did not condemn him on near equal terms. 

She doubted that, even if he _could_ be convinced that his father would likely have cut him down if he had tried . . .well. She doubted even that would make much difference. 

Though Naicë had little doubt that Fëanáro would have done so. Would have considered any such act to be such a betrayal that death would be only what a son deserved. 

Naicë had seen Finwë's first child at Tirion, after all. And known what she had seen. That had been the moment that she stopped believing that all malice and twisting came from their Enemy alone, for whatever else you said of him - and she could say a great deal - Curufinwë Fëanáro had rejected all discourse with Melkor even when others had busily sought his help in their craft. You could not claim that Fëanáro fell under his sway or even felt his influence direct. 

Whatever malice or sickness or marring had wormed its way into the heart of Finwë's eldest son had come from something else. Perhaps even from himself. 

Perhaps everyone, Ainu or Quende or who knew what other creature might come after, carried the seed of such, somewhere inside them. A seed that in the wrong conditions would take root and flower. 

In Fëanáro it had done so, and that flowering malice would have thought very little of answering a son's defiance with violence. Even the greatest violence. 

Naicë doubted that would ease Nelyafinwë's guilt, at least for a long time to come; it had seemed clear to her, as she had listened to him speak, that he would think his own life fair trade for having made the trial, assuming he would believe his father would raise hand to him. He would certainly never hold that truth in his own defense, and so there might be some value in having others know it. 

Not only for him. 

Nolofinwë did not speak in answer, but his eyes had widened, and he sat back in his chair to look at her, grave and quiet. 

Naicë drank some of her yullas and then said, a little quieter, "Whether Findekáno knows I overheard that, I know not: he said nothing of it to me afterwards, neither to ask nor to say aught about it, nor yet to ask me to keep it secret. Even so, normally I would not tell it to you; there are many things said in a sanctuary, and the vastly greater part of them I will keep as secrets until the end of the world. I tell you this one truth now because I think it pressing that you understand things you might otherwise never know, and I deem you will need it - and that both of you are wise enough to treat the knowledge with its needed care." 

The last words came with a glance at Artanis, whose face was grave and whose eyes were wide. Then Naicë looked at the cup in her hand, and the sheen of liquid on the pottery and sighed. 

"I do not think I need dwell on how unhappy your son was to hear that said," she went on, and hoped she did not. "Nor how absolutely he rejected _what_ had been said." 

She watched her king's face and the troubled look there, and went on again, "There may have been some point where you thought, or hoped, that what lay between them was a passing fancy or infatuation, but if you need anything more than what Findekáno has already done to convince you otherwise, let me do so now."

Naicë waited until he met her gaze, and then said, "Nelyafinwë verurya ná. You cannot disentangle them, that I promise you, any more than Fëanáro could disentangle Finwë from Indis. They have joined themselves together, and all you could do is make his path more difficult. And I deem it will be difficult enough." 

Nolofinwë looked to the sleeping shapes, and he was silent for a long moment. Naicë did not subject him to scrutiny, and his thoughts were guarded, though many shades of grief seeped around their edges, not all clear in their causes. She merely let him think, to turn what she had said and whatever he brought within himself to this tent both over in his mind and see where he wished to settle them. 

Sometimes, that was wisest. 

Then quietly he asked, "Can he recover?" and she knew that he meant his nephew. There were many shades in the question, and many thoughts, but it at least spoke well of him that the answer he wished to hear was _yes_. 

"Truth, aranya: I do not know," Naicë admitted. "I do not know what doing so might mean, or what it might need. Can his body heal? Yes - easily enough, if life is in him, such that I doubt he will even suffer much for the loss of the hand. Telperion's light is in him, and Laurelin's, and always will be; given half a chance, his body will return to health." 

She lifted one hand, palm up, in half a shrug. "Anything else? I know not. He has survived this far, and done as much as he has, and there is some irony in how the same nature that means he has done so makes it hard to guess whether he will heal in spirit and mind or if spirit and mind will devour themselves and each other such that he is lost. There is cause for hope, but there is cause also for fear, and I do not know how to weigh them. Time will tell; I cannot, yet." 

He nodded, slowly. "I understand," he said, still quietly. Then he sighed. "And my son - how is he? For all that seems a less pressing thing - " and he ended in a slightly helpless gesture. 

"Your son needs rest that he is not very good at taking," Naicë replied, wryly. "It may be a small and backhanded virtue that it seems clear that Nelyafinwë will do better with his presence, and is also unlikely to manage much more time awake than he has so far for at least a day or two yet, and will certainly not rise or move about more than a few feet under his own strength for many days to come. That _might_ lead Findekáno to stay still long enough and well enough to eat and rest as he needs, but will not believe he does."

She could not resist giving the sleeping form a brief, exasperated look. "Even for such as he," she noted, "running more than sixty leagues over two mountain ranges through poisoned air with little rest is little more than madness." 

Her voice had turned tart, she knew, and Nolofinwë's expression turned wry at the same time. "You need not convince me," he replied, with some slight weight. "And I shall not tell you how little he ate or drank as he did so, either. Nor the patrols and bands of our enemies he avoided or dispatched. If I am ever blessed to see his mother again I shall have to take back long years of argument over his naming." 

Naicë allowed herself a small smile. She did not know what Anairë had named her children - no one did, outside of that family, and that itself meant most suspected they were as revealing as Nerdanel's names for her younger five, and perhaps as uncomfortable to wear, though Nerdanel's had mostly made their peace with them. 

But she let that pass, and said, "I am doubtful, either, that he will be easy to convince that grief and worry for another are their own form of hurt, and yet it is likely that they will wear on him as well."

And there, a sudden shadow and closed, inward look passed over Nolofinwë's face that Naicë could not entirely read, and that she did not think he would have wished to show her. 

She said nothing, only finished, "We shall have to see how that unfolds." 

Nolofinwë nodded, and kept a thoughtful gaze on his eldest child for several quiet moments. He was struggling, she knew, with the desire to rise and cross to the bed, to rearrange the blanket so that it covered his son and would keep him warm - as any parent would. 

She hoped he would not give in to that. She would have to stop him, for such as he should not go near to Nelyafinwë even while he slept. And having to stop a father that way would feel cruel. 

But he did not. He merely watched his son for a moment, and then at last he sighed again and said, "My thanks, Naicë. I will leave you, that you too may rest. If there is aught else I need to know, I trust you will tell me." 

The words were a declaration, but the look he gave her was a request.

She gestured her assent. He stood and kissed Artanis' brow in farewell, and then took up his cloak and left. 

"You, also, do have need of rest," Artanis said, almost at once, and Naicë sighed at her - but could not argue. She could only hope she would not dream. 

"I know," she said. "Draw the other bed aside for me; you will not wake them." 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, though, Maitimo glanced at Findekáno and then looked down at his hand and said, "That was Artanis," quietly, as if half a question. 
> 
> " - yes?" Findekáno answered, puzzled at the note in Maitimo's voice he could not wholly interpret. "Though she may have gone now - no," he corrected himself, near thinking aloud and speaking as he thought, "I cannot hear Irissë, and Naicë would have come in, so yes - it would still be her watch, I suppose." 
> 
> "She has . . . " and then Maitimo stopped, staring through his hand where it lay on the blanket and started again with, " - why is she - ?" and then stopped again, as if he could not lay hold of what he wished to ask.

**V**

_i._

When Itarillë returned to her uncle's tent in the morning, it was to find many things had changed.

The entryway had been added the morning before, but this morning inside the tent there were two curtains of heavy cloth strung from the roof of the tent that could be tied back or let fall to give some sense of privacy to the side that held the wider bed and the new bathing alcove. For the moment, only one side of the curtains was tied back, with the other falling and making the division clear.

It gave the tent two separate rooms, something Findekáno had never bothered to do before. It was not that her uncle disdained comfort; it was just that in the normal manner of things, he spent very little time in the same place that he slept, and so had never bothered with such things. Even in inclement weather, he was most likely to be out somewhere, as the duties he took on dictated. Until now, at least, if he returned to his tent it was simply for that, to sleep, and otherwise it mostly served as a place to keep his things dry and safe where he could find them.

His dwelling in Tirion had been much the same, although there more of the expected comforts and shapes had existed simply because they _were_ expected. Here, if one did not seek out a thing for one's tent, it simply did not make it in, and so for a long time though his tent had been large it had been sparse and spare, a cavern of canvas filled more or less with nothing.

Now a small arrangement of a long-seated cushioned arm-chair, a table and a more ordinary cushioned arm-chair also sat in that room that now held the bed. The long-chair was draped with one of the larger furs from the Ice - one of the creatures that seemed to be eaten by everything else, that Itarillë had heard some of the hunters call lutpolca, the kind that had the softest fur. It covered most of the chair, and Itarillë thought Irissë must have brought it.

Within the room, Itarillë could see their nautamo asleep, but she also saw that the bed was a larger one than before and that her uncle lay beside him, also deeply asleep and haphazardly covered by a blanket. Neither of them so much as stirred.

The other side of the tent had been reordered once more, with the narrower bed in the furthest corner from the door and Naicë asleep upon it. Chests and the other couch were set up to mark different spaces: one for the work and concoction of healing, another for sitting and resting, a third for preparation of simple food, all meant to keep the work of eating from mixing much with the work of healing.

It came as no surprise that Findekáno still slept. Itarillë had not been surprised to see him awake and helping - or interfering - with the building of the bathing alcove and other things the day before, for she _knew_ her father's brother. But she had also sighed, quietly to herself, for she thought Artanis had the right of it.

He would not have rested much, nor eaten nor slept, as he made his way to Angamando, making at least four full days of hard travel on little respite. And though Thorondor had born him back, Itarillë doubted that counted as _rest_ \- the air would be thin and cold where the Eagles flew, and with no harness nor seat it would have depended wholly on Findekáno that neither of them fell.

Then it had been only a few bare hours that Findekáno had rested before Nelyafinwë woke the first time - and in great distress, or so Irissë said.

And that accounted nothing for the burden of care and fear over all of those days, nor anything of which he had not yet told them. Itarillë had only the barest idea of what it must have been, to move about their Enemy's own mountains, to avoid his creatures; and as yet she knew nothing about where and how Findekáno had found what he sought to begin with.

As for being that close to Sangoronti -

There had been times in the past months that the smoke and fumes had been bad enough _here_ to choke some of those most vulnerable to such things; she could not imagine what it must have been like, the closer he drew to the source.

These things tired body and spirit, and wore them thin.

Now, though, the air was washed clean with the brief, hard rain of the night before, and if it made the grass and pathways cold under Itarillë's feet she would gladly make that trade. As she entered her uncle's tent, she paused and looked to Artanis, and gestured to the door, silently asking if she should tie it open and let some of that clean air in.

With the entryway, it would not allow anyone to see in, and it would not catch the wind.

Artanis looked thoughtful for a moment, and then nodded but held up a hand, and out of one of the chests beside her drew two more warm blankets; one she passed to Itarillë, gesturing for her to add it to the one Naicë slept under already, and the other Artanis carefully cast over the two sleeping shapes in the larger bed.

It was not cold outside, not truly cold, but it had the cool thrill of the morning after rain and the Sun only just risen. Though the Sun was at the wrong place in the sky to shed any more light through the door, still the clean air seemed to brighten the tent as it spread in.

Itarillë had just finished tying the door open when one of her arandurë, Rilyawen, brought fruit, bread and yullas, enough for Artanis and the others as well. Itarillë helped her set them out on the taller table with its chairs in the eating corner of the rearranged tent. That was the part closest to the doorway and furthest from the sleepers, where quiet conversation was least likely to disturb them.

Artanis came to sit, with a murmur of _bless you_ , though she seemed to Itarillë a little less drawn than she had the day before. It likely helped that Atar was himself less contentious.

Itarillë did not as yet know why that was, what had come to pass; but whatever had brought the change had brought _enough_ change that she had slept in Irissë's tent last night and felt it likely she could return to her own bed tonight. According to Rilyawen the night-guards said that Findaráto had been there until into the second watch, and there had been laughter rather than argument - although no one would admit to straying close enough to be caught eavesdropping.

As they ate, it seemed to Itarillë that Rilyawen had some thought that she was turning over and over in her mind, and working herself up to speak. That was something of a surprise; Rilyawen was the newest of those who attended Itarillë and she knew Rilyawen found Artanis intimidating. She tended not to speak when Itarillë's cousin was present. Yet it did seem to her that just now, something was playing on Rilyawen's mind, pushing her that way.

Itarillë chose to be quiet, and to wait, for it seemed that beginning a conversation might intimidate Rilyawen to silence, where asking her what she wished to say might push her more than she was ready.

After a moment more wherein she seemed to brace herself, Rilyawen said, "I have a thought," and then briefly looked as if she had chosen different words to use, for there would be many among their people who would not be able to resist making play, having someone else begin so.

But Itarillë suppressed her amusement, and Artanis gave no sign of anything but interest, so Rilyawen went on, "My brother . . . he was one of those pulled from the last collapse, on the crossing."

Itarillë remembered. It was a moment that stuck in the mind for her and for many others, for it had come when they were in sight of solid land - and so seemed particularly cruel. A stretch of ice and snow that had seemed solid, had even been tested by the tochelci, then crumbled away and collapsed, dropping seven people into the jagged space below.

Two had died in the fall, broken or cut open as they struck the ice, and it had taken a long time to pull the others out. All of them, including Rilyawen's brother, had been injured; two more had died of the cold and of their wounds before the surviving three could be retrieved.

Rilyawen's brother had been badly hurt, Itarillë remembered, and one of those who had died between fall and rescue had done so on top of him, life bleeding away over the hours it took to reach them. He had not done well over the journey that came afterwards, staying in Naicë's care while they travelled. Only after they had reached the encampment here had he begun to truly recover and even then, Itarillë knew it had been difficult.

"I remember - " Rilyawen began, and then hesitated and began again, " - after we came here, Naicë told us that even though my brother could not yet walk, he should spend some time under the stars and the Moon, and then the Sun, after it rose. But he hated it and refused as often as he could, to begin with. He said he felt as if everyone was either watching him as he did, or were at great pains not to, and he could still feel their attention - and their pity, or their horror, or their embarrassment at being horrified. And he hated that."

Rilyawen paused for a moment and took a careful breath to go on, "He and my mother fought greatly about it until she moved their tent down nearer the lake, to the outer dwelling-circle - and near a copse of trees where he could sit and would not be seen by those passing. And then - it did seem to help? When it had not before."

With the air of one making a great effort not to be self-conscious, or to regret having begun to speak, she finished, "I thought - well, I know that Naicë says the same to others, especially those whose hurt is partly in their minds, that they should not stay only under roofs, hidden away from the world's lights, but . . . "

She glanced at the tent door drawn open. And it was true enough: while the new entryway provided some screen, and while no one would have the bad grace to be caught looking as if they were _trying_ to watch, still - Findekáno's tent was where one would expect it, within the circle that also held his father's, his brother's, his sister's, and his cousins' and it was not as if there were not many who came and went from those, day and night both. Not to mention the guards that managed that flow of people needful and not.

And the circle beyond it held the captains and the hunters, the bathhouse and the mattanesse and . . .

"That is . . .a concern," Artanis agreed, thoughtfully, and at that Rilyawen looked encouraged enough to go on.

"I saw the alcove," she said, nodding towards it, "and the curtains and I thought - there is enough space, it would be simple enough to make frames to screen a space off from view, but leave it open to the sky."

There was enough space: the simplicity of Findekáno's tent up until now had ensured that. Itarillë caught Rilyawen's hand and squeezed it, and Artanis smiled briefly, although then looked lost in thought.

"I will speak with Naicë when she wakes," Artanis said, and Rilyawen looked pleased.

"It seemed as if the nightmares were much less for my brother, after that," she offered, "and his mind grew less dark. Naicë told my mother that given he had been trapped in the ice it did him no good to be trapped under canvas, still hidden from the sky."

"That would be a truth, indeed," Artanis agreed. "And here may solve a problem before it arises. My thanks."

Then she glanced at the sleepers and added, "For now, though, if when you have finished you would find and bring more food that can wait until at least Findekáno awakes I would deem it a service - like as not someone will have to sit on him to make him think about such things long enough to eat."

"Irissë said he ate yesterday," Itarillë noted, and Artanis gave her a look of mixed amusement and exasperation.

"Indeed," she confirmed. "After Irissë pushed him into a chair and put food in his hand."

Rilyawen looked thoughtful and said, "I will bring something easy to hold," and then looked pleased with herself when Itarillë had to suppress her laughter.

_ii._

_Rain._

_Maybe rain roused him maybe not: hard to tell. Rain here means nothing. Rain here is only wet and cold and tastes bitter and turns ash into mud it comes through the smoke and the poison and the ash-clouds anyway it is not clean it is not new it is the same as everything else here, just rain._

_It had been raining for some time; it rained when he last fell into darkness, he thought. Maybe the rain didn't rouse him._

_Maitimo couldn't feel his bound arm and the fingers of his free hand were stiff with cold from the rain; slurry of ash and mud slithered down the cliff-face beside him; water tasted grit and ash in his mouth._

_And blood, too, from the cracked skin at the corner of his mouth - and blood, too, in his head like a trickle into a pool became a flood and no, please, not him, go away, please - and then the laughter that hurts and burns through him, paints the inside of his eyelids dark and red and wakes every nerve to screaming, then that laughter came and filled him and beat him against the stone._

_And the voice that comes with the laughter said,_ I wonder if they are ever coming, star-child.

 _Said,_ I wonder if they will even try.

 _Shoulder screamed, shoulder wrist side agony he had no answer, could barely think, and his enemy in his mind, filling everything that wasn't pain with the question, mocking, laughing:_ the singer wrings his hands and frets his paces out in circles - will he do anything? The hunter who crawled back to the rest with his tail between his legs? Your father's little mirror? Or will he be a pale copy through and through? Yapping dogs that try to hide their fear behind their noise and chase their own tails and catch nothing. They fret and bicker and keen and wail and every one of them stays cringing back for fear of joining you.

 _Words wound around him that burned like the whips and etched and dug like the tracks of acid in his thoughts and would not stop -_ I will take them, each and every one of them; I will take them one by one and keep them, oh yes: just like you they will not die, and you will see all of what I do to them and yet while you scream and beg and plead for them you will remember, too, star-child, that not a one of them stirred a step to find you, not a one of them made even a creeping noise to save you and they never, ever will.

_And rain, and more rain._

_Before now he had beaten his head against the stone, over and over, trying to find darkness and to make the voice stop, stop, escape his Enemy in darkness in death break his skull open on the stone but it never worked, never lasted, and now he was too weary and too weak._

_And then -_

_\- nothing. And then -_

_\- not there._

_Then darkness. Deeper than darkness of an open sky: no glow of the mountain no weak shrouded glow of the moon just darkness the inside of rock and iron and how was he there, again, that was before - ? But time has been wrong before he has been confused memory tangled up and dreams sometimes there is not just nothingness sometimes there were dreams or maybe, maybe -_

_Cannot stand, cannot lie down, bent and curled and it hurts - the cell is a tomb around him narrow and low and dark and dark and endless dark and earth and rock bearing down on him and pressing in crouched against stone naked in the dark - the cell is cold the cell is hot it is -_

_\- it is one after another and around again it is too hot it is too cold he cannot see the walls he can only feel them and he is so cold he cannot stop shaking and then he is too hot he cannot breathe and sometimes there is screaming and sometimes it is him and no one comes, and no one comes, and he should have died by now he should have died and he cannot die and no one comes._

_And this is memory. This is memory._

_And at the end of memory light, the open door, stumbling and falling to the ground as it opens, aching, limbs not working -_

_\- and at the end of memory_ he _came, and_ he _did not need light to see or be seen and_ he _was beautiful and_ his _presence struck like a crushing weight and_ his _voice hurt and it hurt and -_

\- he _said,_ A message from your brothers, lovely-one. You were not enough as payment for them to take their rabble away south. They would not trade anything for you, it seems, and they have only drawn back to their lake to fortify their rat-holes. You will have to stay our guest.

 _This was a game, this is a game, there was the laughter that burned in his head his Enemy watching his servant play and_ he _said,_ Get up, lovely-one, _and the words were like knives under Maitimo's skin._ Get up. I think I will find something to do with you.

_Memory. And memory of a hand, a hand like that of his own kind except at the tips of each finger were claws like iron razors, when he did not move fast enough that hand closing in his hair and more and he does not want this he does not want -_

********

This time, Findekáno woke slowly, to mid-morning light and the sounds of the encampment and the closer but still inaudible murmur of voices within the tent. He blinked at canvas over his head, and at the edge of vision saw that yet again while he slept, his tent had changed.

Someone had managed without waking him to affix five wooden rings to the canvas roof, one in the centre, one each halfway to the edge and then one each at the edge, and then that someone had hung from those wooden rings two curtains of dark blue linen, meeting at that centre ring. He wondered idly where they'd found the cloth, as the colour was a clever way to make the curtains seem heavier and thicker than they were without risking the weight of canvas or the need to place more supports for the tent.

Then he turned his head and that idle thought evaporated like so much mist.

Maitimo lay beside him, awake but not looking at him. Sometime before now he had turned partway onto his left side; now he was half-curled in on himself and deathly still, save only for the occasional tremours of one braced for pain or worse, face averted.

It struck Findekáno like hitting dark, frigid water. He found himself half sitting up without any thought, leaning on one arm in order to reach the other hand and touch the bare skin of Maitimo's right arm, in the spaces the brace left bare.

"Maitinya - tyenya, no, look at me - you are safe," he said, and brushing the side of Maitimo's face, Findekáno tried to guide him to look. "All is well, you are safe. Look at me, tyenya. Please."

He did his best to hide his own dismay at the sudden thought that his very presence might be no small part of the reason for such fear, and that he had not thought of it before. And yet still another thought asked what good it would have done to think of it, since things being otherwise before had seemed no different - and Maitimo had asked him not to go.

And then a third voice wound around both thoughts inside his own head, this merely a wordless silent wail of something between rage and grief that the question even mattered. That it arose.

Findekáno pushed all of these thoughts and inner voices aside, shutting them out as best he could, and only repeated, "Tyenya, _please_ look at me," balancing each word as he spoke it between clear and gentle as best he could.

And after a moment, Maitimo did, uncurling enough to raise his eyes to Findekáno's face; and after another moment he seemed, maybe, to believe what he saw, and began to breathe - Findekáno did not know if he had held his breath, before, or if it were just that they had been so small and shallow that he could not see them under the fall of the blankets and now they were deeper.

But with each breath something in Maitimo's body released, and something uncurled and unwound, so that he lay back slowly, releasing onto his back, although he flinched once in some pain before he was done. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard as one reaching for calm or mastery of pain.

Findekáno carefully brushed Maitimo's hair back from his forehead and said, "Noinanyë, Maitinya. Maybe I should find somewhere else to sleep."

Though he said it, he did not mean it - or at least he hoped he would not have to. He did not wish it for himself, not truthfully, and he said it almost thoughtlessly, as the kind of wry jest one makes because one hopes it will be denied.

Then he wished he had not, for he barely finished the words when Maitimo's eyes flew open and he clutched at Findekáno's arm. " _No_ ," Maitimo said, voice cracking on the word, "no, Kányo, please, do not leave - "

And there was real fear wound around the words, and enough distress that Findekáno found himself trying to stop them, saying, "Tyenya, shhh, peace, I am not going anywhere."

He bent to kiss Maitimo's forehead, moving nearer so that Maitimo could reach to hold onto his shoulder instead of clutching at his hand and lying back down beside him. "Peace, Maitimo, I am right here, I am not going. Shhh."

He lifted himself a little so that Maitimo could work his arm around underneath him and hold on, as Maitimo seemed to wish to do. They lay there for a while, Maitimio's fingers twisting in the cloth of Findekáno's shirt until he seemed calmer.

Then Findekáno combed fingers through Maitimo's hair and kissed his brow again. "Mára-arin, Maitimo," he said, and said mostly because he realized he had missed saying anything like it.

Had never said it, not those words, not yet. Had not had Maitimo with him to say it to, while the Sun rose and set. In fact, Findekáno realized with a sudden ache in his chest, it . . . was likely that Maitimo had not heard the word for morning, before. For the time when the Sun was still in the eastern arc of the sky.

So he amended, "Mára-arya," and it was strange to say that again, though in truth it had not been so long since it spoke to the order of their lives. It was strange, though, and disorienting to think of the change and how much lay between.

And painful. That as well. That the word for the time where the Sun still rose in the sky would be strange because of where Maitimo would have seen the Sun's first rise.

Maitimo made a sound that seemed halfway between a laugh and a sob. His eyes were closed again, though his face was turned towards Findekáno now, and some wetness shone on them, a little, when he blinked them open.

"Ávatyara n - " he began, but Findekáno shook his head to stop him, leaning his head on his right hand and brushing Maitimo's cheek with his left.

"There is nothing to forgive," he said, trying still to balance some gentleness with making it very clear that there was no room for argument. "I only hope you were not awake long, melindo."

And then as he spoke he thought of it, thought of the likely reasons Maitimo would have been awake even before he himself, Findekáno asked, "Does your shoulder hurt?"

For a moment, Maitimo looked down and away from him, jaw tightening, before he nodded as if he had to admit it and did not wish to.

"It woke me a little before you woke," he said, voice quiet and rough. "I did not - I thought - " and he stopped and then only repeated, more quietly, "ávatyar'nin," as if he could not think of anything else to say.

As if by feeling fear and confusion he had done something wrong.

"I said there is nothing to forgive, tyenya," Findekáno replied, firmly, and kissed Maitimo's forehead. "And I will find something for the pain. Rest," he added, pushing himself up to sit, "all is well - I'm not going far."

He stood and went to the curtain - and then somehow he was not surprised that Nerwen pulled one side open just before he could, threading a cord through a ring sewn onto the edge that he had not noticed and tying it back, holding the curtain partly open.

She would not have been _listening:_ of course not. Listening at doorways - or curtains - was not something his cousin did. And yet still and of course, she would know that he had woken, and when he had risen, and was about to come seeking anyone else.

Nor was Findekáno surprised that she followed by handing him a cloth-covered tray, which he was nearly certain was already full of all of the things he was about to ask her for: of course she would have thought of it all already.

That was her way.

There were times that Findekáno was grateful that he had never truly dwelt for great lengths of time in the same household as his full cousins, as for all his affection for them and even for Nerwen herself, he was not certain he could endure this _all_ of the time.

And it probably spoke better of Findaráto's nature than Findekáno's own that Nerwen's eldest brother never seemed to find her unsettling or unnerving the way nearly everyone else did. Including, sometimes - and he would admit to it - Findekáno.

That after a time one resigned oneself to being unnerved did not make it less so.

Here and now, Findekáno noted that all his cousin did, from pulling the curtain to handing him the tray, came in a single set of fluid movements; that told Findekáno that she was in one of her whirlwind storms of efficiency and that, to tell the truth, he should just take the tray and retreat as quickly as he might.

He realized as the thought arose in his mind that, though this time he had slept well enough, he was still tired: he would never have thought that, else. If he were not so - well, he likely would still have restrained himself from the kind of mischievous obstructiveness or uncooperativeness that his cousin in this mood always inspired in him, because he was not a fool and she often had good reason, but that would have been a reasoned choice, not the hastily felt desire to retreat without even a thought to the game.

And in that way of hers that could be deeply frustrating, the look Nerwen gave him now told him that she saw all of that in him, as well - the entire arc of his thought and consideration of the matter.

That much was enough that he could not restrain himself from demanding, quietly, "Do people _ever_ surprise you?" - and then immediately realizing his mistake.

There were any number of ways she could answer that question, and some of them would sting and all of them would be true - and most of them he might even deserve, given what he had recently done. And so in the moment of having said it, Findekáno braced himself somewhat for her answer.

Instead, though, Nerwen merely gave him a look with the faintest hint that she too had caught all of that sparkling in her eyes.

"As if I needed more proof that you are not yet recovered," Nerwen said, quietly and blandly and Findekáno suppressed a sigh but did not disagree.

She went on, briefly lifting the cloth covering the tray, to show him what was there now that her hands were free, "This is the hasama that brings sleep; this is the one that does not," pointing to the two small cups, the liquid in one clear, the other a pale yellow. "The broths are for him; the other food is for you, as you have not eaten since Irissë made you do so yesterday. I advise that you eat it before your sister comes or Naicë wakes, whichever comes first." Then she drew the cloth back over all.

Findekáno inclined his head, took the tray and forebore to say anything further, carrying the tray back to the bed and setting it on the ground. Behind him, Nerwen untied the cord from the ring and let the curtain fall closed and again there was the murmur of voices that accompanied tasks being shared and instructions being given, while everyone kept their voices low - likely to keep from waking Naicë.

Findekáno had wondered, a little, what rest the nestandë might be taking and when, given how she seemed always to be nearby and never seemed as if she had just woken - but he had only wondered it distantly, and even there, it had not seemed something he should ask either way.

Now he also wondered a little at what had so unsettled Nerwen, for he had marked before now that she seemed most likely to make herself a whirlwind when something unspoken, something that she could not find a way to control, was making her uneasy - but what made Nerwen uneasy was not always what made anyone else uneasy, and so was not always easy to determine.

There were many things to be uneasy about. But what unsettled her might be something _else_.

Findekáno found that he almost did not wish to know. It felt jarringly unlike himself, but still: maybe whatever it was, he would not have to add it to his thoughts. There were too many things in his thoughts, most of which he could do little about and so could not be moved to more comfortable positions. If he were lucky, whatever troubled his cousin was not something that needed him to confront it.

That would be . . . something to be grateful for, anyway.

Maitimo had not stirred from where he lay, and had briefly closed his eyes - against fatigue or pain, Findekáno would not guess, but he saw Maitimo's eyes open again as he came back. Sitting on the bed, Findekáno asked, "Can you sit up, Maitinya?"

And it was a true question: Findekáno did not assume the answer would be _yes_. That Maitimo had done so before he did not truly take to account. Each time it had been done without help, it had also been in the kind of distress and agitation that Findekáno suspected accounted little for pain.

There was a great difference between what one could do - sometimes even without thought - in such a state, and what one could do in calm, without desperation pushing.

After just long enough for a breath, Maitimo nodded.

In truth it was likely he could have _managed_ alone - but Findekáno could only _watch_ through half the motion before he could not bear to _only_ watch, and not to help, leaning over so that he could rest his whole arm along Maitimo's upper back rather than only a hand and take some of the effort of sitting up on himself.

He hoped he was not pressing against any of the bruises too deeply. But even if he did, Findekáno could see the cast of pain that Maitimo was attempting to hide _lighten_ as Findekáno helped him.

It struck Findekáno in this moment that though it would be deeply unhappy knowledge, he would likely be wise to ask Naicë exactly what Maitimo's captivity had done to his shoulder and his side, and where and how far the damage reached, so that it would be clearer what would and would not bring that kind of pain. What "help" might be no help at all.

The thought worried him.

Now, once Maitimo managed to sit up, Findekáno cautiously judged it would not hurt so much to stay sitting; and he was either right or in a handful of breaths Maitimo had mastered the lie of ease far, far better than he had just before, and Findekáno doubted it was the latter.

And he thought all this, in calm and reasoned ways, but behind these thoughts Findekáno felt there were a thousand others, and seeds of others that - because he had no room to consider them - did not flower the way they could, but nevertheless left pieces of themselves, traces amongst the rest. Intuitions and feelings.

Pieces of _knowing_ \- like knowing that were it he himself, Findekáno would hate feeling and indeed being so weakened as to be unable to even sit up in a bed, and knowing Maitimo well enough to be sure it was no different with him; and pieces of _wondering_ , the shapes of what he should or shouldn't say, or do, should or shouldn't ask or even wish to know.

And pieces of memories and anxious thoughts that he did not have space for.

They clattered behind what he managed to actually think, like a crowd at a feast, unintelligible, incoherent and indecipherable in themselves, and yet still liable to steal the meaning from the words spoken by the one person one was actually talking with.

But through the clatter of them, Findekáno thought maybe that though there had been relief at the help and the lessening of pain, there might also be regret or shame for needing it.

So he rested his hand briefly between Maitimo's shoulders and said, with a quiet attempt at apology, "I should have asked if you could do that without more pain than I can stand to witness."

Then wondered if he should have, or if he should have found something else. Some way that had not even mentioned it. Or if he should have kept quiet. Or -

The noise of his thoughts threatened to unbalance him, so Findekáno bent to take up the cup for the hasama that did not bring about sleep, and then paused.

Whether Maitimo had meant to respond and became distracted, or if Findekáno's words had not truly sunk in was not clear, but now Maitimo looked to the curtain, to where Nerwen had met Findekáno with the tray. Findekáno could not read his face, save that whatever else Maitimo thought or felt there seemed mingled in some guilt and dismay.

Findekáno nearly asked, but then thought better of it: whatever the answer it was likely such a question would be better _after_ something was at work to make pain less, rather than waiting as that pain grew. Instead, Findekáno said, "Maitimo," to catch his attention, and then made certain that Maitimo had taken good hold of the cup before he let it go.

"There is broth, too," he added, as Maitimo drained that cup, "both kinds - I hope the white stuff is at least tolerable, I've never had it - "

Then he stopped, tilting his head, for the sound Maitimo made at that . . . he could not interpret. It might have been something like a laugh, interrupted by pain at the movement, or it might have been something else - but either way, Findekáno could not quite catch the reason. As well, Maitimo had put down the empty cup in his lap and put his hand to his face, and seemed to be taking each breath carefully, and Findekáno could not see the reason for that either.

So, uncertain, he waited until breathing seemed to need less care, and then after a moment asked, "Maitinya?"

Maitimo shook his head. "It is . . . nothing, it is fine it is all - it is all well," he said, voice uneven, letting his hand fall to take the cup and give it back to Findekáno.

And then as if something in he could now see in Findekáno's face demanded it of him, he said, quietly, "I . . . remember little enough, just now, what . . . any food is like. I don't - " and he stopped, like one who has made a wrong turn down the path.

He shook his head again, then said, "- it is well enough?" and looked at Findekáno as if seeking some sign that it was enough of an answer.

As an answer, it was one that stirred a deep unease Findekáno did not wholly comprehend, with even deeper unease at that seeking look - but at once he also thought that maybe it was better left alone. Better to leave it alone, to accept the demurral even if he did not entirely understand it yet.

There was an awkwardness to this, to all of this, that Findekáno did not like, and yet could not think of how to disentangle. It was a sense of fumbling forward without knowing where to put his feet, afraid that what seemed like solid ground would crumble away over some kind of abyss without warning and they would fall into it, ending broken at the depth.

Part of him wanted to fill silence with words, and yet that did not feel . . . kind, when it seemed clear that Maitimo still struggled to catch and take in what was said to him, and struggled all the more to put words to his own thoughts and give them back.

Another part wanted to ask what he could do, what was wanted, what was needed, and another to . . . oh, in all to find something, to find a way to sweep it all along and away from this.

Findekáno suspected instead that what was truly needed of him was quiet, and patience, and forebearance with his discomfort at the awkwardness of it. And yet he was not _sure_ of that. Was not sure that much was not simply fear, and the part that said that if he did not act, nothing could go awry. A child's thought, but one that crept in under many guises.

For a moment part of Findekáno wished Naicë were awake, only to think that maybe it was foolish to assume that if she were, there would be a clearer path through all of this. That she would know - that it _could be known_ , what would change things. What path would bring ease instead of this tension.

On an impulse he caught Maitimo's hand and kissed the back of it, and then bent to the other side to take the nearest bowl. And that at least did not seem wrong.

Maitimo's grip seemed stronger, this morning, and more steady. He needed less and little help to hold either bowl, and had soon drunk both of them empty. Curious, when Maitimo had finished Findekáno ran a finger around the inside of the one that held the white stuff to taste it - it seemed sweet and faintly gritty, as if something were stirred but not wholly dissolved into it, and there were echoes of herbs and other things he thought he should recognize but did not.

When he put both of the broth bowls down he remembered the food that _he_ was meant to eat, and brought it up to set it on the bed; sitting up, he found Maitimo looking at the curtains again, with the same look as before.

This time, though, Maitimo glanced at Findekáno and then looked down at his hand and said, "That was Artanis," quietly, as if half a question.

" - yes?" Findekáno answered, puzzled at the note in Maitimo's voice he could not wholly interpret. "Though she may have gone now - no," he corrected himself, near thinking aloud and speaking as he thought, "I cannot hear Irissë, and Naicë would have come in, so yes - it would still be her watch, I suppose."

"She has . . . " and then Maitimo stopped, staring through his hand where it lay on the blanket and started again with, " - why is she - ?" and then stopped again, as if he could not lay hold of what he wished to ask.

Findekáno hesitated, wishing to leave space for Maitimo to gather himself, not wishing to roll over him; but Maitimo did not seem able to find a clearer question. Or at least, not able to find the words for it.

Striking out towards his best guess of what Maitimo wished to know, Findekáno said, "It is her way - their way, she, my sister, Itarillë - Naicë is the nestandë, but our kinswomen arrange all matters to do with that domain - and that means Nerwen arranges it, in truth."

He attempted to keep his voice a little quieter at the last. Not that Nerwen could _argue_ , yet still: as he said it, he knew also that he had chosen a frame perhaps less of gratitude than of exasperation, and that perhaps showed ill-grace. He also found himself already speaking the words before he could choose different ones, but at least - perhaps - he could be sure they were quiet enough that only Maitimo heard, and they could not offend their subject.

There being another sign, maybe, that he was still more worn than he might wish to believe.

And there were more words that arranged themselves behind his tongue, but Findekáno stilled them, and waited to see if he had guessed rightly what Maitimo wished to ask. He reminded himself of patience. Reminded himself that even if this hasama did not addle thought the way the stronger one did, pain and weariness and who knew what else were enough to make thought slow and arduous and uncertain - and that the remedy was seldom endless chatter or impatient interruption from someone else.

Reminded himself that it might pain him to see Maitimo struggle so, but he should not make it worse.

So Findekáno waited, as Maitimo looked to the curtain again, almost as if he could see through them. Findekáno thought he could see Maitimo shape the names to himself, silently - _Artanis, Irissë, Itarillë -_ until then a shadow seemed to pass and Maitimo asked, quietly, " - not Elenwë?"

Findekáno knew he did not wholly keep the wince from his own face. He thought of the night before, and wondered if Maitimo would do this again, and how many times - this leaping all at once to the thought or question that carried the most pain and that should wait until he were in better state to open it, and throwing it open instead.

For now, though, Findekáno had only one answer. He could not lie, and asking Maitimo to set the question aside would be an answer in itself - simply the coward's version.

He exhaled, carefully, and said, "We lost Elenwë to Helcaraxë," because there was no easier way to say it.

Maitimo's gaze dropped. For a moment he was very still, staring as if through his own hand and the bed and the rugs beneath it now.

He took half a breath, and then another, and Findekáno saw his hand first flatten against his leg and then his fingers dig in, pressing down. Maitimo said, "Then w - " but stopped as if the sound got caught; said, " - why is her - " and then stumbled again. He shook his head, eyes closing, face twisting, hand rising and closing until he pressed his knuckles against his own temple.

He swayed, enough that Findekáno moved to catch his uninjured shoulder, fearing he might fall.

"Maitimo - " he began, but stopped both because he was unsure what he should say, what even needed to be said, and also because Maitimo shook his head - less in answer, Findekáno realized, to anything said, and more simply . . .motion, negation.

Movement in place of the cry he did not seem able to make as he . . . . fell apart.

For that was what he did.

It felt as if something was driven through Findekáno's heart and then pulled out again, as Maitimo collapsed, as much as the first time he had woken - as much, maybe more, maybe worse. His eyes filled, his breath turned ragged and painful, and though it seemed to hurt him to curl in on himself he did; had Findekáno not caught him he would have fallen.

And if Findekáno had not caught his hand and pulled it away, as gently as he could, Maitimo would gone from pressing his knuckles against his temple to tearing at his face and neck. Findekáno did not think Maitimo had the strength to hurt himself; nor would his wrecked and torn nails have cut at his own skin. Yet still, he would have tried, if Findekáno did not stop him.

He seemed unable to speak. Some words shaped themselves on his lips - Findekáno knew he caught _ávatyarā nin_ and _mekin_ and _noinanyë_ among others that were lost - but no voice came for them; the only sound Maitimo made was the breaking, wracking sound of what air he managed to drag into his body.

Unsure of what else to do, unable to sit idle or to stand even the idea of leaving Maitimo long enough to find someone to help, Findekáno gathered him close and held him, careful as best he could be of the bound arm and shoulder, only hoping what he did made nothing worse.

For a heartbeat, maybe three, it seemed as if Maitimo would resist and a half-thread of panic uncoiled in Findekáno's gut with the thought that he had done wrong - but then as if something had given way, Maitimo's body released against him, collapsed into him, though it seemed his breathing grew no easier nor his distress any less.

Findekáno drew Maitimo to him, turning him a little so that he could hold Maitimo's left hand in his, the back against his palm and their fingers interlaced, folding Maitimo's arm against his cousin's waist and holding him that way, drawing Maitimo's head to rest on the front of his shoulder and stay there with his right hand.

Findekáno held him, and did not know what else to do. He carefully stroked his right hand over Maitimo's hair and the side of his neck, murmuring _shhhh_ and other things and feeling wholly useless, only hoping that he was not hurting Maitimo with how he held him.

It came as some relief - though only some - that when Naicë stepped through the curtain, her face was calm and her manner unhurried. She briefly put a finger to her lips, and then crossed to take up the tray from the floor. She left the plate of food - bread, fruit, a few other things - on the bed beside Findekáno, but put the remaining cup of hasama on the low table beside the chairs.

Findekáno looked at her a little helplessly, trying to convey without speaking all he wished to ask.

Naicë shook her head; for a moment looked distant, before meeting his gaze and saying quietly, "He will calm, in time. If when he does, he wishes rest, have him drink what is there and let him sleep; then come and find me. If he does not, I will speak to you both then. For now, you are doing all that can be done."

Her words were comforting and yet at the same time were not all he wished to hear; after a brief struggle with himself and his own temper - worn thin by worry - Findekáno managed to say, "I do not wish to hurt him, Naicë," and to keep his voice even as he did so.

She shook her head again. "You will do him no harm," she said. "The brace will hold his shoulder where it must be to heal. To the rest, what pain he will or will not feel - " she sighed, eyes falling to Maitimo. "There are times when one must choose what may be worth the pain it costs, and that is a choice he is making, I deem, as best as is possible."

It was less comforting than he might wish, but Findekáno nodded and she went back out.

After a little while it seemed safe, at least, to let go of Maitimo's hand long enough to gently move him, to draw him into rest against Findekáno in a way that Findekáno hoped would cause the least pain. Maitimo no longer tried to hurt himself, to dig his at face and neck - just closed his fingers in Findekáno's shirt, holding on tightly, and sagging against him.

That probably did mean that it hurt less. Findekáno hoped so.

He bent his right knee up and for a moment let go so that he could pull both pillows over, leaning his leg against them; he settled his left arm around Maitimo, resting his hand carefully on Maitimo's opposite hip, and his right arm even more carefully around Maitimo's shoulders, resting that hand on Maitimo's upper arm. It let him take the weight of holding Maitimo up against his arm and leg and the pillows, and let Maitimo let go of it.

Findekáno was not precisely aware of when he started rocking, gently, nor of when the song started under his breath - a half-remembered lullaby his mother might have made up, because he had never heard anyone else sing it.

When he became aware that he had, he nearly made himself stop, save that Maitimo had further relaxed against him, suggesting that it helped.

He kissed the side of Maitimo's head, humming the tune softly under his breath because he had forgotten most of the words. Had never really paid attention to them - it had not been one Amillë had sung to him, he had first heard it around when Turukáno started to walk, nearly fell off a balcony, and had bad dreams afterwards.

Amillë sung it for Turukáno and Irissë both often enough.

After another while, Maitimo's breathing seemed easier - though that might well count as damning with faint praise, for Findekáno had heard the gasps of the dying that had seemed easier than what had been before. But still: it did.

Findekáno shifted, carefully moving his right arm to rest around Maitimo's back and his left to stroke Maitimo's hair and down to the side of his neck. He felt the places of roughened, abraded skin, of the dried and shrivelled blisters of old burns, and kept his touch as light as he could. And slowly, Maitimo curled into him, releasing a little more, and breathing a little easier.

Findekáno tried as best he could to think.

_iii._

Naicë woke before the first sound startled all of them.

Itarillë wondered what it was that Naicë had felt, what sense she had that the rest of them lacked - though Artanis too seemed a little uneasy just before Naicë stirred. But Naicë was not _uneasy_ ; she stirred once, and then pushed herself all at once to sit, throwing her covers back, her gaze training like an arrow on the place where the curtains opened.

Then the noise came.

Itarillë startled, but Rilyawen near jumped, eyes going as wide as a startled doe, staring at the cloth beyond which nothing could be seen. Naicë rose and went to stand by the curtain, but she held up one hand as she did so, gesturing the rest of them to stay back.

Whether Artanis was as startled as the rest of them or not, Itarillë did not know, but now her face held a kind of grim resignation; she returned to the work she had been doing at the table. Itarillë could see lists, some of them of materials and some of them of names, and a brief sketch of what seemed to be a space.

She had thought more than once this morning that perhaps Artanis should go, should rest - but there was something about her cousin that made Itarillë hesitate to say so. Hesitate to say anything, really. There was a briskness to her motions and a purpose to everything she did that put Itarillë in mind of the purpose in a very sharp blade - and the brittle edge of it as well.

So instead, Itarillë had simply made certain that there was always a warm drink at her cousin's arm and otherwise went about the needful things that she was actually here for. There were enough of them.

Now Rilyawen looked to her with a frightened question in her face, and Itarillë reached over to squeeze her hand and shake her own head a little, though Naicë stayed where she was and the broken sounds did not cease. If Naicë wished them to do anything she would make it clear, and otherwise . . .

Otherwise this was clearly a moment where if the nestandë did not want one to do anything, nothing should be done. However painful it was to listen instead.

Itarillë had heard that kind of sound before, though only a few times. Most of them had been when a young child had died, and in such a way that the grieving parent blamed themselves, whether that was true or no. The first time it had terrified her; now it was only agonizing.

It was a sound of grief that you could barely call _weeping_ , each sob half-crossed with a scream or a keening noise, and the grieving one barely able to take in enough air for the next. It was not safe, either; those sobs could fracture ribs and tear the throat to ribbons.

Alas, there was often little anyone could do. There were hasamar that would calm anyone who could drink them, but that itself was difficult in such grieving. Most often, all anyone could do was offer what comfort arms and voice might give until the storm was spent, and do what they could afterwards to repair and ease what needed it.

For a moment, Naicë stood, her head tilted as if listening but to something other than the _sounds_ of agonized grief; then she shook her head. Artanis glanced at her and seemed to understand something that Itarillë missed, nodding and turning back to her work.

Naicë sighed and put her hands to her face and then put them together, palm to palm, first fingers resting for a moment against her lips, her eyes closed, before she drew a second deep breath.

Then almost as if awakening again, she said, "Itarillë - I should have asked before, but I did not think of it."

Itarillë looked at her expectantly, and the nestandë said, "Do me a service and go to my tent: in the largest of the chests you will find - eventually - a book with a soft leather cover. Green, about so big," she added, marking out the space in the air of a book that was neither very small, nor overly large. "The one full of drawings of the body, whole and by part - you should remember it."

There was a note of dry understatement in those words; Itarillë did remember it. The drawings were ones Naicë herself had done with meticulous and vivid attention to detail, and they depicted the body both whole and in many cases injured and broken, explaining how the injuries occurred and how they might heal.

It was in truth no little gruesome and Itarillë wondered why she wanted it - for Naicë seemed to know it all by heart and to keep the written text only to give to her students - but only nodded.

"Take this as well," Artanis said, holding out one of the things she had been writing, folded twice over. "Your grandfather should be in that direction. And take Rilyawen with you; you might have to spend some time looking for that book, and Naicë needs clean clothing as well. Less time will be wasted."

In this, Artanis was giving Rilyawen time to compose herself without drawing attention to the depth of her dismay. It was entirely reasonable, for Itarillë had sought for things in Naicë's belongings before, and while Naicë kept the spaces where she worked strictly neat and easily understandable in their organization, it could be difficult to determine the logic behind where she put her personal belongings.

Itarillë sometimes thought that it was simply that Naicë spent so much time arranging the world for other people, in one way or another, that by the time she retreated to her own tent she put things down or away with no consideration even for her future self. Another set of hands could make a great deal of difference, approaching that.

Itarillë did wonder what Artanis needed from Haru, but did not ask, simply put the message in her pocket without intending to read it, took Rilyawen by the hand, and led her out of the tent.

Rilyawen seemed to breathe deeply for the first time after they were a few steps away. Itarillë squeezed her hand gently again.

"It can be distressing," she began, but Rilyawen looked at her in surprise and then shook her head, colouring.

"No, I - " she began, and then exhaled. "My brother . . . cried like that," she said, as if in admission. "Once, a little after we encamped here."

Itarillë looked at her in surprise; Rilyawen looked away as one does when they wish to make believe that they are composed.

"I do not know what caused it exactly," she went on, "he and my mother had been arguing about what he could or could not do, I think - I had done my best not to listen, to tell the truth, but it . . . became louder and then . . ." she trailed off. "It sounded very much like that," she finished, softly. "I went in to see and my mother looked more terrified than I had ever seen her, while she held him. More than when we had been waiting to see if they could pull him out."

Itarillë paused, stepping to the side of the path and drawing Rilyawen with her, so that they would not block anyone else. "Noinanyë, Rilya," she said, quietly, taking the girl's other hand. Rilyawen shrugged and shook her head, seeming to try to brush it away.

"No need, hériyë. It is better now," she said, with an attempt at brightness. "It was soon after that we moved our tent. It was - " she shrugged again. "It was just unexpected. To hear such again."

More so, Itarillë thought, after carefully drawing herself back to that time to give her suggestion before. She hesitated and then said, "Rilya - if you wish, if you would rather take a few days with your family, it is - "

"No!" Rilyawen said, as if the word were leaping out of her, and then caught herself, managing more composure. "No - thank you, hériyë, but - I want to help. It was just - I did not know what to do. It was unexpected."

Itarillë sighed. "All of this has been very unexpected," she said, and maybe a little more weariness or perhaps exasperation showed in her voice at that than she entirely meant, for Rilyawen suddenly had the look that said something was amusing, but she thought she ought not to show it.

It was not unique to her, Itarillë reflected. Amillë had once remarked that among the rewards for following those of royal house around was the right to private amusement at what you became part of managing.

"Tell me if that changes, Rilya," she said, accepting it for now. "You have more to bear closer to this than anyone else."

Rilyawen looked at her sideways, as they stepped back on the path. "Except you, hériyë," she said, and now her face was serious. Itarillë blinked, and then shook her head, with a short laugh.

"As long as Atar is not making things more difficult," she said, in the voice that is quiet because you do not want anyone else to hear, "then all is well enough with me." Then she added, "And I did not say that aloud."

"You would never say such a thing aloud," Rilyawen agreed, solemnly. "And I have certainly never heard it before."

Finding Haru was easy enough.

He appeared to be in the midst of listening to three people argue with one another about whether something was or was not possible, with at least three people if not more behind each of them, agreeing or disagreeing as well; they had all stopped, with various bows and curtseys when Itarillë had approached.

Itarillë greeted her grandfather and gave him the message. Haru glanced at the folded paper and asked if it were urgent, and when Itarillë told him that Artanis had not said it was, he kissed her cheek, thanked her for it and put it in his pocket.

She did not linger to find out what was prompting it, but she did notice Haru had the resigned look he got sometimes when he already knew that whatever decision he would make, someone would be _particularly_ unhappy. That there was no way to balance it so that instead everyone involved was only a _little_ unhappy, instead.

Haru had once wryly observed that people were more likely to accept disappointment if it were little, and if everyone else they knew of had also to accept it, so that it did not feel as if anyone were being particularly denied.

Itarillë realized as they crossed to Naicë's tent that she had no particular idea what the trouble might be. There were a number of possibilities; several arguments and disputes that had all more or less been suspended when Findekáno had disappeared. Since he had returned she had been too busy to listen to camp gossip.

She should probably amend the oversight, now that she felt more sure she would not have to put herself between Atar and something very unwise.

While it had not taken long to find Haru, it did take a great deal of searching to find the book.

The search began with determining which chest Naicë had meant when she said _the largest_ \- there being three where it would be hard to choose between them, save that one was a little taller, and one was a little wider, and the third was a little longer. After a moment of effort, Itarillë had to admit that even knowing Naicë as much she did, she could not guess which of these qualities Naicë would consider to define _the largest chest_ , and resigned herself to looking through all three of them.

She was careful in her search: everything she took out she returned precisely as it had been, even when that seemed to be replacing things into disorder. It might indeed be disorder, but she would not assume so, for Naicë might have some logic for these things that was apparent only to herself.

Replacing everything in exactly the same way only risked leaving Naicë with the same disorder she herself had left. Imposing her own order, Itarillë knew, risked leaving things worse than they had been when she opened the chests. She had no desire to do so.

Naturally, the green book was in the last of the chests, the one that was a little wider. At the bottom of it. Such were the small perversities of the world. Itarillë sighed, set it aside, and returned the rest of the chest's contents while also making note in her own mind that it had been this chest in the end.

Rilyawen had only a little better luck in finding garments that were truly _clean_. She may indeed have gone through every piece of clothing in the tent, in the standing wardrobe and the two middle-sized chests beside it.

"Heriyë," she said, and Itarillë looked up to see that she had made three piles of the clothing she had gone through; Itarillë could also easily guess that one pile was for that clothing which was _clearly_ in need of cleaning and one for that which was _probably_ in need of cleaning, with a very small folded pile set aside that were, indeed, the clean clothes Rilyawen had been seeking.

"Mm?" Itarillë said, as Rilyawen frowned at the other two piles.

"Might it not be . . . wise," Rilyawen said, as if choosing the word, "to find the nestandë a servant? For herself, I mean, not for the Asiëmar, to tend to - well," and she gestured to the tent and the clothing and even the cot, which was in some disarray. "All of this."

Itarillë sighed, replacing the last of the other books into the widest chest and standing up with the green-covered one.

"Haru offered," she said, "halfway through the crossing. It is not as if it would be onerous, as she is far from demanding - given a chance many would take it as their duty. She refused. I do not know why. I think he has offered since then, as well, and she continues to refuse."

Rilyawen gave her a perplexed look, and Itarillë shrugged.

"I do not know," she said, truthfully. "Naicë is strange about many things."

" . . . well," Rilyawen said, after a moment, "I am going to take these - " and she gestured to the pile that _clearly_ needed cleaning, " - to the launderers on our way past, and if she objects, I am new and I can look startled and ask forgiveness."

Itarillë was startled into laughter at that. But she could not fault the tactic.

_iv._

Time passed, and Findekáno did not find anything wiser to do than wait, giving what comfort his presence and voice could.

It had been long enough that the angle of the shadows had changed - though Findekáno paid little heed to how much - before he felt Maitimo begin to stir, to pull away as if he would sit up. Carefully, Findekáno helped him to do so, reaching out to push Maitimo's hair back from his forehead at the last and brushing fingers over his cheek and the corner of his jaw as his hand fell.

Maitimo's eyes were still wet and the ravaged skin at their corners was red and seemed even more unhappy and sore than it already had - though he showed little consideration of that as he wiped at what tears there were with the sleeve of his shirt, movements small and sharp.

And it seemed Maitimo could stay upright only if he leaned on his left hand - that holding himself upright any way otherwise hurt him, so that his face twisted faintly in pain as he wiped at his eyes and only released when he let his hand fall to the bed and take his weight.

He swallowed and Findekáno could see, _feel_ the words that he struggled for - knew the plea for forgiveness for weakness that would come, and found himself reaching out one hand as if to stop it before he was certain how he could. What he could say.

But the gesture did keep Maitimo from beginning, and so Findekáno hesitated only a heartbeat, maybe two, before he said, "Maitimo. Melindyo," and moved to brush the side of Maitimo's jaw again, to encourage him to look back at him, before Findekáno let his hand fall to rest gently on Maitimo's closer knee.

Findekáno struggled for another heartbeat with finding the wisest thing to say, until he gave up and said, "There is nothing to forgive, melindyo," quiet, firm, and as Maitimo looked down again he went on, "no, listen to me, Maitimo, please - there is not. There is nothing - you have done nothing that needs my forgiveness and there is no remorse I need from you, tyenya."

He leaned forward to kiss Maitimo's head as Maitimo closed his eyes and made a sound that might have been a disbelieving laugh interrupted by a noise of pain.

"Maitinya," Findekáno insisted. "Melindonya - you are worn, and you are weary, and you are hurt, but you are here, and you are with me, and you are safe."

He felt the tears that dropped on the back of his hand, and shifted, moved closer and turned so that he could catch Maitimo's face in both hands and lift it, wiping the next tears away. "And the only thing more I could want," he went on, "is to know how to bring you ease and help you rest, and for you to believe me. I swear to you."

Maitimo met his eyes, and then looked away again for a moment - but this time, when he shook his head it felt as if he were letting something go, and this time Findekáno was sure that the noise was a laugh. A painful laugh, with bitter humour, little and only poisonous mirth, and no joy, but still.

"I do not know," Maitimo said, barely above a whisper. "I do not know, Kányo, I am - " and he stopped, looking upwards and aside as if the words might be there, " - I am cold, but it is inside me, not my skin, and my skin is crawling but there is nothing there, every thought is like trying to keep hold of smoke but weighs like lead and I am . . . so _tired_ it is another pain but I _do not want to sleep_ ," and on the word his voice cracked, and his gaze had dropped as if he could not raise it, "I do not want to, I do not want, again, the moment when I wake on my back and I do not know if I can believe where I am, that you are here, that it is not - " and his voice broke, a little, but it was as if he pushed it to finish, " - _his_ games, again, I do not - "

He stopped, and shook his head, looking away, blinking as if to clear his eyes. "I do not want that," he said, quietly. "Not again, not _again._ I do not want it."

It was difficult to remember -

No, that was not true. It was _not_ difficult for Findekáno to remember that to pull Maitimo close and hold him tightly risked causing pain from abused skin and deep bruises, from the wreckage of his shoulder and his side, from all of it. It was not difficult to _remember_.

It was difficult to make sure that remembering it restrained him, and it _hurt_ , and he hated it fiercely, hated that it was true, but that was different; was not _difficult to remember_.

Findekáno leaned carefully to kiss the side of Maitimo's head, and took as his sign that Maitimo leaned into him, rested his head against Findekáno's, breaths uneven and shallow.

"You are _here_ , tyenya," Findekáno said, cradling the back of Maitimo's head, trying to control the fierceness that wanted to be in the words, hoping what he couldn't would be heard for what it was, and nothing else. "You are here. I am here. There are three-score leagues and more and a mountain range between you and that pit and you are _never_ going back so it will _never be_ the other, it will never be _that_ again. It will not. _I will not let it_."

Maitimo shifted his weight and leaned his head against Findekáno's shoulder so that he could rest his hand on Findekáno's wrist, catch his hand and kiss it, hold it against his cheek. And at that Findekáno moved to - carefully - gather him close again, for he did not think it could cause more pain than holding himself there, for Maitimo to lean fully against him.

He kissed Maitimo's hair and waited for a little again until Maitimo's breathing had settled out of hitching broken half-sobs and into something steadier. And when that came, Findekáno thought, argued with himself, and then said, "You need rest, tyenya." He threaded fingers through Maitimo's savaged hair, and went on, trying to keep his voice soft and even and comforting, "Even if it is hard, it has helped - and I will stay with you while you fall asleep and I will be _here_ when you wake and I will tell you where you are and that you are safe. I promise you."

After a moment, he felt Maitimo nod, a little, and then move to sit up. Findekáno kissed his forehead and then thought of words that had caught at his ears.

"You do not want to sleep on your back, tyenya?" he asked. Maitimo laughed another short, scraping, ugly laugh.

"I do not want to _wake up_ that way," he said, voice uneven, looking away. "I do not - I am not certain there is any way that is good," and the scraping laugh was in his voice again, "but that one is . . . worse. I beg you, Kányo, please - do not ask me why."

Findekáno kissed his temple instead. "There is the other drink, for the pain, and in that sleep you do not move, so that can be managed, I think," he said. "Give me a moment."

First he fetched the cup from the table, and gave it to his cousin, making certain Maitimo's hand could take the weight of it; then, while Maitimo drank, Findekáno took the cushions from the chairs, and rolled his own blanket up, and found the pillow that would not be under Maitimo's head.

Then he put those on the bed aside, took the empty cup and put it on the table, and said, "Here, let me help you lie down."

That was more difficult than he foresaw, for he had to be careful not to set his hand to bruises - thought Findekáno had the uneasy feeling that Maitimo would have said nothing and tried to endure, however clumsy the aid had been. And Maitimo did seem uneasy even for the few moments that he lay back and Findekáno had to move around him.

But it took little time after that to also let Maitimo move a little onto his left side, and to set blanket, pillows and cushions behind him, that he could lay his weight back against them, thus keeping his mangled shoulder still and supported, and yet still be lying more on his side than not.

It took a little more to find the right place to set his left arm so that it would not fall to a painful numbness, and Findekáno sought out one of the towels from the bathing alcove to roll into a support.

By the time this was done, and the coverings pulled up and tucked in around him, Maitimo struggled already to keep his eyes open. Findekáno sat on the bed beside him, stroking fingers carefully through his hair.

"Sleep, melindyo," he said, quietly. "You are safe, and I will be here when you wake again, and I will tell you as many times as I need to, from now until the end of the world. Just sleep."

It did not take very long before Maitimo did sleep - fell into the deep sleep that came with that hasama, breath slow and eyes still, face lax and lips just parted. Findekáno sat for another moment, hand resting against the side of Maitimo's face, just to be sure.

Then, to his frustration, he found his own eyes filled and blurred, and he wept.

******

Irissë and two of her aranduri were in Findekáno's tent when Itarillë and Rilyawen returned to it, and both Naicë and Artanis had gone.

"Artanis has gone to do . . . something," Itarillë's aunt said, keeping her voice low. Her with voice had a patient note, one that said she had determined that attempting to make Artanis explain herself would merely be an exercise in frustration for them both, "at least after she has made Naicë go to the bath-house. I said I would send whatever clothing you brought there, after - ?"

"I can take it," Rilyawen said, "unless someone else truly wishes to?" and when no one else claimed the errand she darted back out of the tent. Itarillë thought it possible that Rilyawen found Irissë as intimidating as she found Artanis.

Itarillë frowned. "Should our cousin not be going to rest - ?" she began, keeping her voice as low as Irissë's. Irissë and both of the others - Centawen and Aikaniel - exchanged a look.

"I asked her that," Irissë replied, quietly. "And she said she should, but right now she would not, and then she left." She shrugged. "If need be I will speak to Findaráto later. You found the book?"

Itarillë held it out, and Irissë took it. She opened it and looked at a few pages, and then shuddered and closed it again, putting it aside. "Naicë said she would likely be back before my brother came out looking for her," she said, still quiet. "She wanted it for him."

Itarillë blinked, coming to sit at the table with the others. "Why?"

Irissë shook her head. "She said he would need to learn some of what was in it," she said. "Better he than I."

Centawen looked at her and said, "Is there _so_ much there you have not seen on a living body yet?"

"And I did not enjoy that either," Irissë replied, with asperity, and Itarillë suppressed a smile. "I do many things I do not enjoy, when needful," her aunt went on, "but that does not mean I have any desire to look at great length at meticulous drawings of what I found unpleasant enough to look at in the flesh."

That was fair, Itarillë supposed.

After a little while, Rilyawen returned, and Itarillë bid her go and take the rest of the day for her own. She would find Lindomë if she needed other help, but as it was, Irissë had taken her handmaids to replenish the stores with what they needed for the broths and the hasama and aught else, and Itarillë stayed mostly so that there would be someone here if there was need.

The time alone seemed appealing; it was not as if there were not enough guards, runners and passers by outside if Itarillë needed.

It had only been but a little more than two hours, all told - the kind of hours that seem very full, but still only that - and there had been little enough to hear over the normal, ordinary background noise of the camp in general since Itarillë had returned.

That did not surprise her either. The kind of grieving or anguish that went with what she had heard before rarely continued long, though it could recur. But each spell could only last so long. The body and mind could not truly take it; they exhausted themselves, and the sufferer lapsed either to a weary clarity, or into an exhausted stupor.

To be honest, she had expected the latter. She had not expected to hear voices speaking. She wondered, later, what might have been had the others still been here: if they, too, would have overheard, or if there would have been conversation enough on this side of the curtain to drown out quiet words from the other - or, indeed, if there being lowered voices to hear would have meant that Findekáno would have been more cautious.

Itarillë was unsure, but in the midst of the idle checking over of all the tools of healing in the tent, she heard the murmur of voices begin on the other side of the curtain.

Nelyafinwë's, she could make out only the sound of his voice, not the words; roughened and worn, it was too quiet. But her uncle's voice she knew, and though it was not loud it was clear enough that she could hear what he said.

Itarillë had to suppress the impulse to get up and leave, as fast as she could. If nothing else, given that she sat on the couch and the door of the tent was several steps - and she would have to put down the surgical blades she had been testing - it might all make a sound and that might make either of them remember that someone else might be here. That would, on reflection, maybe be worse _right now_ than Itarillë overhearing what was clearly meant to be private.

Itarillë could not hear what Nelyafinwë said. But she could guess at it well enough, or at least at part of it, given Findekáno's reply.

When her mother had died, it had been quick. That had been part of what made it so impossible to help - but it meant that Itarillë knew that at most, her mother had been afraid for an instant, and then gone. Amillë had struck her head when she fell and been knocked senseless at once, and then very little time later she had been dead, gone, lost to Mandos until the world ended, or until Itarillë came there herself.

She had thought about that a great deal, but no one could tell her what the Halls truly were, or how such things were ordered. There had been more than once that she had thought that if she could find her mother - if she _knew_ that she could - then being lost as a shadow without form might be worth it.

Only nobody could assure her of that.

But her mother had not been trapped, had not felt more than an instant's fear as the ice gave way. Had not suffered. She had gone from laughing and alive to dead without lingering and without agony, and with only a briefest moment's fear. Itarillë knew that Atar struggled with that part of it, with the suddenness, but for her it had been a comfort. It still was.

Maybe that was because she had spent more time with those who had been rescued after some time, or those who had been forced to listen to loved ones crying for help until the cold or their wounds took them yet had been unable to give any aid. Maybe you had to _know_ better, know what that did, to see as good fortune that, if death must come, it came sudden and without time to understand.

And so sitting in the tent, trying to make herself silent and be sure she was not remembered, dismayed at overhearing at all, Itarillë heard her uncle bite out the words _it will never be_ that _again. It will not. I will not let it_. And could only be grateful she did not know what he felt.

She was both glad beyond words she did not know exactly what _that_ was, and unable to fathom what it must be like to know one you loved had lived through that much suffering. Had suffered that long.

All the days, and every single day, between capture and two nights passed. Longer than this camp had even been here; so much of their time on the Ice, and then all the time since they had left it.

Itarillë could not imagine what it would be like to be in her uncle's place, and know that. And she was glad of that.

She put down the blades in their case when she heard Findekáno moving around, doing something with the bedding. And if she was unsure if this would have happened at all had anyone else been here, she was _relieved_ that no one came _back_ while it went on, while her uncle told Nelyafinwë to sleep and made the promises he did.

Had someone come as far as the door, she might well have sent them away. Some things were private.

When a little while later she heard her uncle begin to cry, it froze her for only a moment.

True that it might be uncomfortable to remind him she was there, to explain later that she would keep to herself anything she heard, all of it - true enough. But she knew those kinds of tears. She had cried them herself often enough.

They were never better left alone.

So Itarillë got up and slipped between the curtains.

Her uncle sat on the side of the bed, one hand over his eyes, and he startled when she came over to take his other hand. Startled and strove to pretend what was happening was not, that all was well. Itarillë shook her head and put one finger to her lips, but she kept hold of his hand and very firmly pulled him to his feet and behind her, back to the other side of the cloth.

Then she stood on tip-toe to be able to embrace him properly.

Itarillë had always envied Artanis her height. It seemed an advantage for all kinds of things, from staring people down to reaching things on high to being able, Itarilë suspected, to better comfort others. She always felt at a loss when the best you could do was have them hold on to you, because your head only came to just above their shoulder.

Though most of her family seemed to take something from it. As, after a moment of hesitation, did her uncle.

Her mother had once remarked, eyes bright with amusement, that only people one's own height or shorter ever cried on one's shoulder; any taller, and they cried on one's hair. Itarillë thought about that now and stepped on the laugh, but let the fondness and amusement stay.

Her father had cried on her hair often enough, though possibly not as much as he should have - Naicë had said quietly once that he did not let himself grieve as he should have, and that was why the anger stayed. She had cried on his shoulder, and Haru's, and Irissë's, and her uncle's, for that matter.

And for a few moments, at least, Findekáno let himself hold her tightly as he wept, as he probably could not with Nelyafinwë either. At least not without being afraid he was hurting.

Itarillë thought of the book, and of needing to know exactly how someone's bones and muscles fit together, and how they were broken and severed, just so you knew how you could and couldn't touch them.

She wondered, frivolously, how anyone managed not to spend their entire life trying to keep everyone they loved in padded boxes, like little glass shapes.

After a little while, though, Findekáno was stubborn enough to start to pull himself together, and to let go, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Itarillë stepped away and before he could begin to say anything interrupted with, "You have not yet eaten, have you."

It was not a question: she had seen the food still sitting on its wooden plates on the bed, ignored in favour of whatever else had happened. And the words seemed to catch her uncle off-balance, so instead of waiting for an answer, she pushed him towards one of the more comfortable chairs, and slipped back into the other side to retrieve the bread and fruit.

If Nelyafinwë had taken the hasama for pain, he would not wake up even if someone moved him, and she had no intention of making the slightest sound.

When she came back out she put what she brought firmly in her uncle's hands. "Eat this first," she said, firmly. "Speak afterwards."

Findekáno gave her a complicated but not unkind look; it was likely simply so that she did not entirely get her own that he replied, "You are beginning to take after your father," before he began to take the rind off one of the fruits she had given them.

"I am told that is inevitable with parents and children," she replied, feigning haughtiness. "Fortunately I only adopt Atar's better parts."

"That is probably true," Findekáno agreed, and then with the first bite of the fruit seemed to notice he was hungry, and said no more until all that was there had been eaten. Itarillë took the rind and other ends from him and gave him some of the yullas kept warm over a candle - it being warm enough today that the brazier was not lit in this part of the tent - and then came and sat on the carpet beside his chair, facing him and looking up at him.

Her uncle gave her a sidelong look. "That you get from your mother," he said, and though Itarillë knew exactly what he meant, she ignored it.

"Onóro," she said, firmly, and ignored the wariness in the look he gave her now. "The worst part of the time after my mother died was watching how much Atar hurt, and knowing I could do very little to help him, or ease his grief. And I know that you know how that happens," she went on, as he blinked and looked down, "because I overheard him say the same thing to you, only he said it of me."

Her uncle swallowed, and said, "You were supposed to be asleep," and tried to make it a dry jest. Itarillë chose not to let him divert her.

"I do not believe for one instant that you are surprised to find out that quite a lot of times I was supposed to be asleep I was listening," she replied, a little tartly. She had never meant to be quite so open about the small ways she managed Atar, but she also truly did _not_ believe her uncle did not see them, or why she did them.

It was at times hard to remember that Findekáno was the elder, and Atar the younger; Amillë had once said, _with his brother before and his sister after, small wonder your father thinks he must always be the thoughtful, measured and sensible one._ And given her uncle had just made his way to their Enemy's fortress on foot alone, her mother may have had a point.

Yet Findekáno _was_ the elder, and in some ways, and in particular about people, even often the wiser; if you looked carefully you could see it. And Itarillë did.

"We _are_ being honest then, are we," Findekáno started, but she gently pinched his ankle.

"Do not change the subject," she said. "Hurt and suffering of those we love is its own wound, onóro. And like every other wound, if you pretend it is not there, you risk it worsening, or festering. And I know this, and so does Naicë, and Irissë, and Artanis - "

"Artanis knows everything," Findekáno said, and it was now his turn to be tart, although his face shifted to startled at the voice from the door, as he looked up - as did Itarillë.

"Not everything," Artanis said, quietly, but half-smiling. And that it was her explained, maybe, how neither of them had known she approached, for she was eerily able to quiet herself sometimes. "But I have a great deal of time left to remedy that."

Findekáno laughed softly, passing one hand over his face for a moment; Itarillë did not bother to stand up yet, as Artanis came in and sat on the couch.

"One of the foragers was bitten badly by something new," she said, "so Naicë will be a little while yet - given it is new, we do not yet know if it has a poison bite or carries sickness with its teeth or anything else. She asked me to stop here and to tell you that the book that she asked Itarillë to find is for you - it is a full treatise on anatomy, ordered by parts of the body, and the parts you want and need are readily found in the sections on the shoulder and ribs, although you are free to read the whole thing if you so desire."

"Given you have just eaten," Itarillë added, "I would wait a little while. I read that treatise, back during the crossing, and it is . . . gruesome."

"It cannot be more gruesome than it is . . . . painful," Findekáno said, after what seemed like a moment's debate about whether to say it, "to be unsure what I might do that might make everything worse, or cause some new injury."

"I believe that," Artanis said, quietly.

Now Itarillë did get up, in order to pour another cup of yullas for Artanis and one for herself, as well as retrieving the book from the table. She gave it to her uncle and this time sat down almost beside the chair, between him and their cousin.

Findekáno held the book on his lap for a moment, and ran a hand over the cover, and sighed. "You . . . know much of this," he said, slowly. "Can you explain what . . . I do not know, is it broken? What is broken? I know his hand is gone, I did that," he said, and Itarillë blinked a little at the wry-bitterness that lurked under the attempted guise of jest, "and anyone could see that the rest is . . . wrong, but . . . . "

Artanis held out one hand for the book, and taking it she opened it to a third of the way in, and then leafed through several pages. "Bodies are . . . strange, under the skin," she said, as she did. "We feel them and live in them as one whole thing, but in truth, they are in many different pieces and the pieces are not so solid or attached as they feel. You have seen this in animals, as a hunter," she went on, finding the page she was looking for, "and it is the same for us."

She held the book in one hand, and with the other she gestured to her own arm.

"The solid bone is here, and here, and then here and here," she said, measuring out the space of forearm, upper arm, and then collarbone and back over towards the blade of her shoulder. "Each is a separate piece, and without muscle and sinew and the softer pieces in and around the joints, they would fall apart. Each is set in relation to every other and held there by flesh, not by anything that they do themselves."

Artanis turned the book and put it on the low table, and Itarillë saw the slight wince cross her uncle's face, even as he leaned his forearms on his legs to lean forward and look. Few enough people ever wanted to know about what their own bodies looked like, under the skin; even hunters like Irissë preferred to keep separate the knowledge of how the bodies of their _quarry_ worked from knowing that their own was the same.

There was always something deeply grotesque about knowing. It was inextricably entwined with injury and death, with something gone deeply amiss and crying out for repair. True enough that if it happened it was best that someone should know how - but that did not mean anyone ever wished it to be themselves.

Itarillë herself found it less difficult to look at the drawings now. Familiarity, she supposed.

"Our muscles are strong," Artanis went on, "but as everyone learns from their own body, they tire, and if they tire enough they cease to work. Our joints are not strong, and our sinews less strong than our muscles are. When we become too weary to hold a weight with our muscle, but that weight remains, it falls on the joint, and the sinews - and the joint begins to slip out of place, the sinews begin to stretch and to tear."

Findekáno's jaw tightened and he looked down at his own hand, now closed. Artanis had paused, looking at him for a moment, and then asked, quietly, "Where did you find him, Káno?"

He took a careful breath and said, "There is no way into Angamando," his voice quiet. "And had he been within the fortress I would have failed."

The words were flat, and without feeling, almost eerie.

Her uncle went on, "He was hung by his wrist on a rock-face among the slopes above the gate - it might have been created to be unscalable. Ai - " and he glanced up towards the roof of the tent just briefly, and then looked down again. "It likely was. If Thorondor had not come, I still would have failed."

Itarillë reached up to work her hand into his. Artanis nodded, slowly.

"Do you know how long?" she asked, still quiet. Findekáno shook his head, though less denial than admission.

"I think . . . before the Sun," he said, "I have not . . . asked but I was thinking of what the Avari told us, that Morgoth had offered his return, if Makalaurë and the others would take their people south and away, and - that was before even the Moon rose."

Itarillë tried to imagine that much time, in such a place, in such a way, and could not. Artanis only sighed, very softly.

"Then I would guess that when his strength ran out, that is what happened," she said. "The weight of his body fell on the joints and the sinews. I do not know as much as Naicë, and she would know better than I how much has gone awry, but I know that when you brought him here his shoulder was badly wrenched out of place, and the blade had separated from the rest. I think the elbow had likely pulled askew as well, but it had already been returned by some movement before you arrived here - that is not uncommon, if nothing is broken. I think some of the ribs may have been pulled askew as well - "

She traced out with one finger how the muscles of the shoulder and around the ribs connected. "I do not know if the sinews are only stretched or if they are torn - Naicë would. Either way, they heal by being put back where they belong, and then letting the body knit itself around them."

"That is what the brace is for," Findekáno said, softly, and Artanis nodded.

"The rest is bruising and swelling and pain from the tissues that are damaged around it," she concluded. "And that is more than enough, believe me, but as long as the bones stay where they belong then there is no further injury, no damage."

He nodded, slowly, and then took the book, closing it after seeming to mark the page in his mind. "Thank you," he said.

Artanis looked at him for another long moment and said, "Káno. You do not need to be on guard." As he gave her a sidelong look she added, "Even your brother has made his peace with this."

"That is hard to believe," Findekáno said, quietly, with a glance at Itarillë that seemed a little guilty. Itarillë suppressed a smile, for she did not think it would be understood.

"It may be," Artanis replied, "and I do not know the tale behind it yet, but _my_ brother assures me it is so, and given five minutes in his company to refresh his knowledge, I would trust his judgement of Turukáno's state of mind better than Turukáno's own."

" - you would probably be right to," Findekáno admitted, after a moment.

"He is reconciled," Artanis persisted. "So is your father. Irissë did not need to be, Itarillë was just chiding you - rightly - and if you do not know that my brothers and I understand and have from the moment we knew what you did, then you have not been thinking very clearly, onóro. Granted - " she said, in the tone of one acknowledging a point, as Findekáno briefly once again covered his eyes, " - you may have to placate two of them about why you left them behind, but that is not because they think you did not do rightly, that is because you did not ask them to help. And in your place Aikanáro would have done exactly the same thing," she added, with a resigned sigh.

"Not you?" Findekáno asked, in the kind of jest that is a deflection from something else that has struck one deeply. Itarillë snorted.

"No, Káno, I would have planned far more carefully than I think you did," Artanis said, patiently. "Even Findaráto would have made _some_ more thoughtful plan."

Findekáno made a short noise that only pretended to be amusement, making a gesture that seemed to acknowledge her point.

"But then," Artanis added, "my plans might have been just as vain, and maybe the King of Eagles would not have taken pity on a more thoughtful trial."

"I still do not know why he did at all," Findekáno admitted, and Artanis shrugged.

"Take more yullas and go rest, Káno," she said, instead of an answer. "There is a long chair in there, rest and horrify yourself with anatomy if you do not wish to sleep. Or ask someone to bring you some volume of poetry or discourse on mechanics, if you want something less grim. Naicë will be back in due time, and there is nothing to brace for. And you are weary."

"Everyone feels the need to tell me that," Findekáno complained, and Itarillë sighed openly at him this time.

"Yes," she said. "Because you do not listen to your mind and body telling you, so we have to. And you _are_."

"Well - so is she," her uncle retorted, half-glaring at Artanis, who did not seem perturbed in the slightest.

"Yes," she agreed, "but my thoughts right now are so full of sharp edges I could not rest if I wished to, so I am merely filling the hours until I am weary _enough_ that it does not matter - which should be sometime after sundown tonight. I am doing it very much of purpose. And I did not run across more than sixty leagues in the smoke."

"And we do eventually tell on her to her brothers," Itarillë added solemnly.

" _Once_ ," Artanis said, feigning sternness. "And there were reasons."

"Yes, onórë," Itarillë said, obediently, and considered herself victorious in that at least her uncle strangled a laugh.

"I will rest," he said, briefly raising both hands as if in surrender. "I will. And I will take this with me," he said, taking the book, with a small play at defiance as well.

"If you are sick you will just have to eat new food all over again," Itarillë said, and her uncle gave her a look that almost managed to be more chiding than amused.

"I will keep it in mind," he said.

_v._

_Their gazes hurt._

_Their voices hurt._

_Not always. Sometimes when his Enemy and his Enemy's servant spoke or looked at him it was like any other glance or any other speech just words just a look and the only pain came from hatred, came from loathing, came from the fear that began to etch his mind like acid into metal and steel into wood and the hottest fire into stone and glass and gem -_

_\- but sometimes, sometimes every word felt like it ran him through and sometimes their eyes on him like they dug holes, burned holes in his flesh and his Enemy's eyes looking into his were like boiling iron running, burning through every part of him and worse, worse, like something that had no words had no way to speak it except a scream, and the servant's eyes looking into his were drowning in poison like breathing a fume that ripped at your lungs and left you drowning in your own blood and you could fight, and he could fight, and he did, but they laughed._

_They laughed. And it hurt._

_He could fight but he lost. And after he lost it was -_

_Worse._

_Sometimes it was worse no matter what he did._

Why _._

 _Maitimo asked. Once. When_ he _had stopped. For a moment. When_ he _had left him huddled on the ground, shivering, hands and feet still bound, gasping and aching and sick._

 _Had asked_ why _, for there were no questions and no commands and even if Lauro wavered Tyelko would not and Curvo would not and the host would follow them and so he gave his Enemy nothing could give his Enemy nothing and so why._

_(Elentári please let them kill him.)_

_Why._

_(Iluvátar please let him die.)_

_And his Enemy's servant laughed and the laughter did not_ burn _but it was worse, it was worse -_

 _\- it was delighted it was beautiful it was joyful and_ he _said_ oh, Maitimo _, and it was gentle and playful and made Maitimo sick, made him sick -_

 _\- and_ he _came and dropped to an easy crouch and_ he _wore_ his _favourite shape, so like their own and beautiful, like Maitimo's kind except for the claws at the tip of each finger and the deep red eyes and_ he _took Maitimo's chin in one hand and forced him to look up, to meet them, stroked his cheek with a claw of the other._

 _Said,_ Because it pleases me, lovely-one.

 _Said_ , Every scream, every sob, every tear, every whimper, every moan and plea and shudder and cringe amuses me. Every useless moment of defiance, every pointless attempt to resist, every desperate capitulation and inevitable submission delights me. And every moment of your pain and humiliation pleases my Master.

 _And_ he _leaned in to brush_ his _mouth against Maitimo's ear,_ his _grip iron, and said,_ Why-ever would we let you go?

 _(And later, later on the cliff_ his _shape is different but it is still_ him _in a shape with wings and_ his _teeth are long and sharp and_ he _is still murmuring, words hissing and sharp and they hurt, and_ he _says,_ Did you think you would be all alone here, little star-child? _before teeth sink deep into Maitimo's flesh and he screams - )_

This time, when Maitimo woke to the sound of a voice speaking to him, speaking his name - this time, one of Káno's hands was over his own, and the other rested lightly on his right forearm over the brace, as Káno said, "Ah - ! careful, tyenya, do not do that, it will hurt. Or - hurt more, I suppose, but do not, you need not," and thought was -

Thought was slow enough, behind waking, that it took a moment for Maitimo to know that Káno had meant _pull back,_ that he meant _cringe away_ and that Maitimo had already - he had already -

It was like expecting another stair and instead finding the ground beneath, expecting another step down and striking surface too early and for a second all Maitimo's head was full of was that jarring unexpectedness, but it jarred too against . . . expectation.

His shoulder hurt.

Findekáno sat next to him on the bed, and this was . . . not home, old home, home that was gone forever now, it was . . . the tent. Where Káno had brought him, where . . . all the others were, where at the edge of what he could even think about sometimes he could hear others. His kind, his . . . people -

Káno's hand on his hand, and on his arm; Káno in a shirt with a mended place on the collar and a vest more bare of ornament than his mother would ever let him wear. Káno's face written with worry he tried to hide, cover under lightness. In a tent that smelled only faintly of charcoal burning and a growing land outside of it.

Káno slid his fingers between Maitimo's and sat back a little and said, "Those did not seem like good dreams, melindyo." And Maitimo could feel pillows against his back and his shoulder ached and it came to him that his thoughts kept tripping on the mended place of cloth because . . . .

Because mended clothes and a canvas tent were not visions you offered as a lure into a trap of believing in release.

Maitimo tried to speak, but his shoulder _hurt_ and it stole the words, ate away at them; concern crossed Káno's face and -

\- _no_ , Káno was pulling his hand away and between the gnawing mind-eating ache and the lingering dreams and fear there was one brittle part of Maitimo left that clung like a child, could only think _no, I do not want that_ -

"Just a moment, tyenya," Káno said, carefully disentangling his hand, "if you sit up, you can drink this, and it will hurt less."

And though he pulled his hand away that childish part went quiet and faded, because he did not go, only shifted so that he could work his arm under Maitimo's back to help him to sit, and then moved so that Maitimo could lean against his side to stay that way.

It seemed more difficult to take the cup and drink than was right, but also it felt that understanding why was more than his mind could do, as pain became like a noise screaming in his head, and Maitimo stopped trying. For a moment.

Until the pain seemed to ebb with his breath again and he could breathe more than in careful gasps. Could understand that he was awake, and from the light through the canvas the sun was low; that he was leaning against the front of Findekáno's shoulder, on a bed, and this was . . . somewhere.

Not Angamando. Not home. The air smelling faintly of burning charcoal and cooking and people and things that grow.

Something in his mind whispered _sixty leagues and a mountain range_ and it seemed like he should know what that meant but he did not, could not grasp it. It was still too far away.

Káno kissed the side of his head and asked, "Better?" quietly, and Maitimo should have been able to answer but the words were stuck, somehow, so he could only nod. He did not understand why.

"Naicë says that as time passes you will probably be able to think more clearly," Findekáno said, "but that might mean that the difference in the pain when the hasami wear off may feel greater. She says it is because your body is actually remembering what it feels like to hurt less, and doesn't like it when the pain comes back."

That . . . made some sense. Like touching something frozen when you were already chilled, or touching it when you had just come from warm water. The first was just another kind of cold, and the second made the senses scream in protest.

Káno touched his right hand to the side of Maitimo's head, kissed the other side again. "Mára-sinyë, Maitinya," he said, another word Maitimo did not know in the shape of greeting - word for the time when the greater of the new lights was setting, maybe.

The ache in his shoulder ebbed, and as long as he did not move it ebbed to nearly nothing. His mind still felt heavy and slow, and the only thing that it didn't feel like lifting vast weights even to think about was the feeling of Findekáno's fingers threading through his hair, brushing his scalp.

After a moment, Káno guided him to sit up a little, in order to drink more of the same stuff as before. The first was just broth, though Maitimo felt too slow and clouded in thought to recognize what kind; the other was something he did not know, mostly white and thick with milk but also other things.

This time Maitimo could hold the bowls himself, too, though he thought he might drop the second one when for a moment his head felt light. Instead, he managed to rest it against his leg, and then Findekáno carefully took it. And looked at it with a frown.

"I should find out what they make that from," he said, almost as if to himself, with the look on his face that he got when he was suddenly struck that he did not know something, disliked not knowing, but would almost certainly forget to ask later, until something reminded him - usually to the same result.

Sometimes the circle went round and round itself for years - the same look, the same _I should_ and the same forgetting and knowing that and the memory that stretched out behind and began from here and might spin itself out again, woven into the world, struck Maitimo with another ache in his chest, a different kind, and his eyes blurred for a moment.

" - Maitimo?" Findekáno asked, voice suddenly full of worry, and Maitimo tried to answer him but again, again, the words seemed trapped before they even came to his throat, and he could only shake his head.

After a moment, Káno said, "Naicë said that if you can, I should help you over there to bathe again, and then she needs to check some of the places that are stitched. She said she had something she should be able to put on your shoulder, now that you have had food - well, drink," he corrected himself, and it brought a moment of the same ache, though less, "and that should help it hurt less, for longer. I think. Something like that."

He looked at Maitimo, question in the tilt of his head.

And the thought of trying to move was heavy and sat on him like a weight but the thought of refusing, of lying back down as he was, that maybe Káno might leave . . . was worse. Far worse. And the world and his mind both seemed . . . trapped between those two thoughts, and it felt as if that should not be true, that only those two thoughts were not all that could be, but Maitimo could not think beyond it.

So he nodded instead.

His legs were still weak, as weak as he remembered from before - the night before? Was that the right span of time? - so that Findekáno nearly carried him until he sank onto the seat that was within the alcove. This time Káno reminded him to sit close to one side, so that when Káno took the brace away he could put Maitimo's arm down against the arm of the chair at once, instead of after.

It hurt less.

The smaller alcove was warmer, such that only then did Maitimo realize that he had been cold. The warmth felt . . .better. He could not think much beyond that, much clearer than that - it was as if the world beyond him became somehow so much further away than it was, or his thoughts became . . . weak. Something. It was hard to hold onto it.

A voice Maitimo did not recognize called to Findekáno, and with a murmured _I will be back_ , Káno ducked through the closed curtains to the alcove, and Maitimo let his head drop for a moment.

It was . . . .strange, to look at his own body. He had not for . . .a long time, now. He did not know how long. His legs and arms were wasted, skin stretched between joints, and that was more strange somehow than the places where thread was sewn through his skin - or where his right hand was no longer.

Maitimo felt as if that should matter more. That it should take more space in his mind, bring more than a vague wonder how long it would take to teach himself to tie knots and write with his other hand. It should cast a larger shadow in his thoughts.

It did not. Instead when Káno came back Maitimo found himself staring at the marks of teeth on his other arm, and the black stitches of thread that held them closed. He looked up when Káno stepped back in.

He carried something in his hand that he looked at with a doubtful expression, something green - leaves, Maitimo thought, though he did not recognize them. Though right now his mind was so slow that for all he could tell Amillë might have grown them, and he was just forgetting.

Maybe not. Káno would not be looking at them like this if they were, would he? Maitimo could not think; his thoughts were mired in who knew what, leaving him stupid and confused. And they stumbled over and over each time his eyes strayed to Káno and he thought again that Káno was here, was alive and was _here_ and -

Everything.

"Naicë told me to tear these up and put them in the water," Findekáno said, still frowning at the leaves in his hand. "It is something that grows here, that she says she did not use before because it is still new to her, and she did not wish to try it until you had at least four meals." He held it under his nose and shrugged. "It smells pleasant enough, I suppose."

He carefully tore the leaves into strips and dropped it onto the steaming water; the scent came nearly at once. Over the wet wood and the odours of the camp it smelled like something Maitimo couldn't remember, familiar but very far away. At the same time his head felt a little less crowded with sludge, as if he staggered out of deep mud to lean against something a little more solid.

Káno came to help him stand, and said, "She says it is the first thing she has found here that is new and helpful, instead of new and set on giving her more charges to care for."

The water stung in some places, but it was warm and the tub was just wide enough to sit with his knees bent up, yet deep enough that if Maitimo leaned against the side, the water came nearly to the tops of his shoulders. It took some weight off his right shoulder, and the rest he could lessen by holding his arm against himself. Carefully.

And it was warm. And soon enough the stinging had eased and it seemed as if some of the pain had leeched out of him into the water - not all but some.

Findekáno brought the stool around to beside the tub, but then seemed to hesitate. "A moment," he said, "I will be back - " and then darted out again, coming back with something else in his hand. And he seemed oddly abashed.

"I, we," he started, and then, starting again, "your hair was too - I had to cut it," he finally settled on, "and I did not do very well at it. I keep seeing bits I should fix. That I would fix, if it would not trouble you - ?"

Maitimo blinked at him and managed, " . . . if you wish?" It felt difficult to understand, or at least to believe that what he understood was in truth what Káno was asking, and it was maybe confusion that let these words out of wherever the rest were trapped.

They had cut his hair; it was, he thought, likely strange that he had not thought to give it notice before. To wonder why it was not in his face or in his eyes. He should have noticed before, when Findekáno brought him here, that it did not need to be much washed or bound away, but he had not.

His thoughts had been filled with other things, and even now it was difficult to care. To bother with it even in his own mind, either that his hair was cut or that he had forgotten or . . . anything. Maybe tomorrow there would be something else that he would remember, or think of, and wonder why he had not. It seemed likely. But it seemed so unimportant there was no reason . . . even ask Findekáno what he meant, what was wrong; he could do as he wished.

It was if anything simply a relief to be able to speak the words aloud. And Káno seemed relieved to hear them. That was important.

For a while all was quiet, and Maitimo let it be. The water was warm and smelled of something he could not remember but wished he could, and Káno's fingers touched his head here and there. A thread of thought told him if he was not careful he would sleep here; another said he should.

"Close your eyes a minute, tyenya," Káno said, and he might have said something else before that; Maitimo couldn't remember. As the pain in his shoulder and side lessened other places that ached or burned . . . no, they did not become worse, but there was space to feel them and they made the noise in his head loud enough to make thought difficult again, at least for a few heartbeats until they too ebbed, as long as he didn't move. But it made trying to think once again a great effort.

Doing as Káno said was easier than thinking. Maitimo did not need to understand or remember why.

The feeling of warm water on his head and down his neck almost made him startle, but knowing caught up fast enough: it was only water, only warm, no burning, no pain, no choking smell to come after, just water and the feeling of warm air on wet skin, and Káno's fingers against his scalp and his skull.

Only the smell of savalma, of the soap on the table and the plants added to it, wet wood and the ground under it, whatever plant had gone in the water; only all of that. And so he could keep himself from tensing much, from shying away, and could simply . . .stay still.

There was a shadow of . . . everything else, just beyond, everything else, Maitimo could feel it: questions and answers and things he could not understand and did not know, things that he would have to know, a snarling storm of words and _should_ and so many other things. Like the dark at the edge of a circle of candle-light, lamplight, where the tiny circle of the fire you huddle against makes the darkness beyond it worse, and like a child in that light in his mind he huddled away from that edge.

It terrified him and it was waiting but right now there was a candle of _only-this_ and in his mind he curled close to it and pretended the dark didn't exist.

Káno spoke, sometimes, said what he was doing, and his voice had shifted a little, the kind that as it changes tells you what you had not noticed before. Káno's voice lost the brittle-bright edge, the note that meant he was filling silence he didn't trust with words - sometimes because they needed speaking, but sometimes in the hopes they would tame the silence, make it change, either drive it away or make it trustworthy again.

Now that changed; now Káno's voice held the edge that said he was pleased with himself, and that was better. And out in the darkness beyond the moment Maitimo thought he might even understand why, what had happened, but he pulled away from it - he did not want to understand, not until he had to. It did not need understanding; it was enough that it was good, and that he might have done something to bring it about.

Even though he could not think.

Maitimo had not opened his eyes, but Káno told him to keep them closed, and again came the feeling of water over his skull and Káno's hand guiding it. There were places that he could feel were bruised, when Káno touched them, but Maitimo did not care.

He wondered if when you died you took the moment of your death with you into the waiting. Had wondered many times before - mostly thinking that even if it were so, it would at least mean there would be no more new moments like it. Now a thread of thought said that if it were true, he could be content enough with this one, even with the distant knowledge that the pain had not gone away. Was just waiting, beyond the candle-circle of the moment.

Inside that candle-circle, he felt Káno gently use a towel to take most of the water out of his hair, and then lightly run his fingers through it, as if setting it in place, before resting his hand on Maitimo's head for a moment.

Maitimo felt almost as if he teetered on the edge of something more than sleep; his limbs felt as if they could be heavy without any weight and there was something he could almost remember as peace just beyond his grasp. His head resting on the edge of the tub and Káno's hand resting on his head, it felt as if there were a soft shadow he could fall into and . . . rest.

Then Káno's voice broke into the quiet as he said, "Ávatyar'nin, Maitimo," coming around to half-kneel beside the tub and brushing the side of Maitimo's face.

As Maitimo blinked his eyes open, momentarily confused at a request that seemed to make no sense, Káno went on, "I would just let you be, but water cools quickly and then I do not think it will be quite so pleasant - and Naicë says that she does need to look at some of the sutures."

With effort, Maitimo managed to gather his thoughts together to understand that Findekáno meant he needed to get up; once that came, other thoughts came easier, although words still did not. He nodded, and tried to keep anything from showing on his face as Findekáno helped him stand and step out of the water to the ground.

It hurt less if he held his right arm against his chest, and if he was careful he did not hurt too badly as he moved.

He could not stand for long; Káno helped to dry him, but soon had to help him sit on the chair as his head swam and he found himself swaying. He attempted to apologize, but Káno caught his face in both hands, shaking his head.

"Maitinya, Naicë has assured me that it is remarkable you can rise from bed at all," he said, half-smiling. "So there is still nothing to forgive. Here," he went on, taking a length of cloth out of a pocket and dropping to one knee. "Naicë also says to wait until after for the brace, but that your arm should not be unsupported for so long, so - "

Maitimo watched, as much as he could, as Findekáno slid the edge of the cloth under the arm and then around his neck, and then drew the other up and tied the corners together, and then did . . . something else with the third end, for it was a triangle, or so Maitimo thought.

It seemed strange and flimsy and yet when Maitimo cautiously let his own forearm go, it held well enough.

"There," Káno said, looking pleased with himself. "Can you stand for a moment, tyenya?"

And Maitimo could, more or less - Káno helped him up, and guided him to hold onto the centre pole of the alcove-tent and it helped, long enough for Káno to wrap one of the dry towels around his waist and tie it. Then he ducked under Maitimo's left arm to help him again.

He kissed Maitimo's temple and said, "Clean clothes are waiting, Maitinya. It is only for a moment."

Words seemed trapped again, and he could not think what he would say even if they were not, so Maitimo only nodded and let Findekáno help him back to the bed.

Naicë was waiting, sitting on a stool beside the bed.

Maitimo remembered the nestandor now, a little. Though he had never known much about them, except that they all went to live and study with Estë in Lórien, that when they ventured out even some of the Maiar seemed unsettled by them, and they kept many secrets.

And chose epessë like _bitterness_ as if they embodied the thing.

Atar had not liked them. Atar never liked anyone who might know something he did not, and who would not agree to tell him whatever he wished, and the nestandor never did. Not for anyone. He had liked even less that the nestandor did not seem to care.

Had gone quiet and sharp and terse whenever Amillë had spent time with one who visited, learning about the body for her work.

Amillë had ignored him.

Maitimo did not remember if he had known a nestandë had set out with them, with all of them, leaving Tirion, or if he had known Naicë before he woke here; trying to remember felt too far away and too heavy.

She was small and sharp and dressed in dove-grey this time; she felt old like Haru had felt old. Maitimo thought if he were not so tired he would be unhappy with the way it felt as if, as she watched him sit on the bed, she saw everything - even everything he might try to hide.

But he was - not the heavy drowning sleep of the hasama she gave him, or drowsing luring soft darkness in the water just now, but just weariness. For all that he could not have been awake more than two hours, and part of that near asleep in the tub, the weariness weighed on him like a hundred feet of earth. There was no more he could do to hide anything.

He knew Káno could see most of everything, too.

Though Maitimo did make himself sit on his own, for now. For as long as he could. He did not know how much longer it would be, but for now, if he leaned on his left arm, he could. It was not cold, not really, but he was conscious of the air on his skin and that though the air was not cold it . . . felt like it stole the heat out of him.

And he was weary, enough it nearly hurt again.

When Naicë tilted her head it reminded Maitimo of a songbird.

"Pain wearies us, Nelyafinwë," she said, as if she knew his thoughts. Maybe she did. Her voice was lower than her face made one expect. "Injury and pain. So does starvation. You have taken enough in nourishment these last two days that I can begin using remedies I would not risk before, but that is far from enough to replenish what has been deprived for so long, nor even answer what healing is demanding of you now."

There was a ghost of a smile on her lips for a moment, complicated and maybe wry, and she said, "I have little doubt within a month you will be tired of endless reminders to eat, and rest."

Another new word, though he could guess it meant a span of time. But it was hard enough to imagine tomorrow, to hold the idea in his head. He could no more imagine a greater span than he could have stood on his own feet by now.

He thought that, and the words were there in his throat, but again they would not come out. Maitimo felt his jaw tighten and he looked away.

And Naicë said, "Speech is difficult," and it was barely a question - and she did not seem surprised. Maitimo made himself nod, though he could not make himself look at her, not at once. He looked at his left hand against the new blankets on the bed.

"You should not force it," she said, this time wholly gently. "The difficulty may come and go, and it is most like to be greater when you are more weary, or under strain. It will pass with time - and less time, if you do not try to push yourself down that path. Speak when you are able, and have patience when not - though I know it is more easily said than done."

"Why would that happen?" Káno asked - to Maitimo's silent relief, because he could not. The nestandë shook her head.

"We do not know," she said, simply. "But it does. Some part of the mind decides that speech is dangerous, that it will bring some great harm, and so it forbids any and exerts a mastery over all else, commanding silence. Convincing it otherwise is best thought of in the way of coaxing a bird to eat from your hand: anger and frustration and impatience only make it worse. Better to resign oneself to patience and sitting very still in order not to startle it."

After a half-beat of hesitation Findekáno said, rueful, "How you know this is one of the things you will not tell me, isn't it."

"Or anyone else," Naicë agreed. "Neither your sister nor even your cousin know the answer either, so you need not feel slighted." And then after a brief pause she said, "Nelyafinwë."

Now Maitimo looked at her, called as much by the name as by any desire to look. But now something had softened, and though when she spoke to Findekáno there had been an edge of play, now her voice was only grave.

"Among such things that I know," she said, quietly, "is how my presence feels to you, and what it reminds you of, and why that is an unhappy thing."

Something in Maitimo's chest twisted and he had to look down again, as she went on, "And I regret that, and I regret that it cannot be eased or veiled if I am to aid you - and my aid you do need, still, though less than many might." Maitimo could feel her gaze on him, not unkind. "Your captors put forth no little power to keep you alive long past such time as starvation or exposure should have killed you."

"I know," he said, and he did not know why those words were easy, though he could not look at her to say them. He felt Káno rest a hand on his left shoulder, almost hesitant.

"When such is true," Naicë said, "there is always a risk that what was done will simply collapse, especially when they have sought to cause the greatest suffering that they could short of death - as they did with you. One of the things I have learned is how to prevent this."

Maitimo felt the shift to a deeply wry, tired amusement, and did look up.

"Now I am not one of the Ainur," Naicë said, "and though it may seem strange to hear I most often count that a blessing. But you have become . . . " she paused as if she needed to find a word, " . . . let us call it alert to their touch - or anything that might feel like it. And the arts that I use cannot help but be the latter, though I am very much the same kind as you. But I have no will to harm you, and even to cause you discomfort is the furthest thing from my wish, though sometimes with injury it cannot be avoided."

This time he could only nod.

"For now," she finished, "I must be certain no infection grows where we have used sutures. It will not take long, and then you can dress, and rest."

The last felt like a promise Maitimo was not sure he dared believe, but he nodded again.

If it were true, the sooner she was certain, the sooner this could end.

*****

Findekáno could feel the faint shiver under his hand, and slight way Maitimo swayed and for a moment he nearly suggested that Maitimo lie down before he fell.

Then he remembered what Maitimo had said about waking up, and thought better of it. Moved himself instead to sit on the bed so that Maitimo could lean on him instead, and stay sitting up. After a moment he felt Maitimo sag against him, a little. As if weight had just settled into his bones.

Naicë's examination took less time, and was less painful to watch Maitimo endure, than Findekáno feared. He supposed that was likely why she had spoken so long to begin with, hoping to make these moments easier.

Maitimo tensed and his breath stilled once or twice - for the one on his leg, and the one at his neck - but it did not take much until Naicë seemed satisfied of them.

Findekáno found it hard to watch her examining the stitching where Maitimo's hand should have been, but in truth that one again seemed to bother Maitimo less than the others: he looked at it while she made her examination, and only flinched once - and that after she turned her attention to his shoulder and told him it would hurt for a moment while she tested one way in particular it might move.

At that, Naicë sighed, and guided Maitimo's arm back into the bandage-sling.

"This will take the longest," she said. "I think it may heal aright in the end, and in that, if so, you will be fortunate - many times it would not, and the shoulder would be lastingly maimed. This will help," and here she paused to retrieve a small glass jar with a whitish salve in it, unstopping it and taking some onto her fingers, "but it will also feel very strange; it encourages the body to heal, but it confuses the skin's senses for a little while."

Her hands seemed careful as she applied the salve to Maitimo's skin, but Findekáno felt Maitimo's breath catch anyway. But he only said, "It . . . is strange," quietly, and Findekáno could hear no pain in his voice, so he just waited.

Naicë closed the jar and put it on the table beside the bed. "It should be used every six or seven hours at least," she said, "but it can be used more often if you wish. I will leave you now to rest; Findekáno should come and get your hasama when you wish to sleep."

When she had gone, Maitimo relaxed a little more against him; Findekáno shifted a little to carefully work his right arm around Maitimo's waist and hold him more easily. The next fraction of release came with a faint shudder, and for a moment that worried Findekáno - but Maitimo's next breath seemed easier, and he rested his left hand on Findekáno's arm as if to hold it there, not to push it away.

Findekáno rested his cheek against Maitimo's still-damp hair and for a moment they were still, until he said, "Come, tyenya, let's get you dressed and warm." For as comfortable as the air was to him, Findekáno doubted it felt warm to Maitimo, so painfully thin; and as much as Findekáno might wish to simply remain here, holding Maitimo as he did, he did not wish Maitimo to get cold.

He felt Maitimo nod, and drop his hand to the bed to lean on; feeling reluctant, but pushing the feeling aside, Findekáno let go of Maitimo and got to his feet.

The brace for Maitimo's shoulder was still in the alcove; Findekáno retrieved it, and took the clean clothes that Itarillë had left earlier in the day from where they waited on the low table by the long chair.

Itarillë had taken the right sleeve off of the shirt and opened up the seam at the side, putting buttons there so that it could be pulled on and closed without jarring Maitimo's arm or needing it to be moved about nearly at all. It was clever, and it worked well.

Maitimo seemed easier once he was dressed, and more so when the brace was returned to his arm, for it seemed to give better ease to the shoulder and side than the simple sling. Findekáno was not surprised.

When that was finished, Maitimo seemed pale, and tired, but when Findekáno asked him if he wanted to sleep, he shook his head - but then seemed unable to find more to say.

After a moment, Findekáno moved to sit on the other side of the bed and took the pillows he'd used before as support, setting them on top of one another. Then he drew Maitimo to lie back and lean on them, so that he was at least half sitting instead of lying down, but need not hold himself upright.

"There," he said, as more signs of pain seemed to ease off Maitimo's face. Findekáno sat cross-legged on the bed just to one side, and smoothed Maitimo's hair back. After another moment, and with hesitation, Maitimo reached over for his hand.

Watching Maitimo struggle for words was deeply unpleasant. It was difficult not to begin to guess, to try to find ways to leap to relief, and Findekáno found he nearly had to bite his tongue. Yet he did make himself wait, mindful of what Naicë had said.

Finally, Maitimo said, softly, "Don't go?" and Findekáno blinked at him. Then he pulled another few pillows over and lay down against them, leaning his head on other fist, making absolutely clear his intent to stay precisely where he was.

"Does it look like I intend to go anywhere, tyenya?" he demanded, but with an effort to keep his voice light. Maitimo's eyes closed, and he swallowed, and Findekáno tightened his hand on Maitimo's slightly, moving a little closer.

"Maitimo," he said, quieter, and waited until Maitimo looked at him. "I am not going anywhere," Findekáno told him, firmly. "Besides," he added caught between rue and sideways acid, "according to _certain_ onóri, I am _supposed_ to rest anyway. So here I am. Resting."

Maitimo blinked quickly, and his eyes were bright; it took several moments, but in the end he said, "I do not think any of this counts as resting, Káno."

"Well," Findekáno said, still light, "you are wrong." He squeezed Maitimo's hand again, carefully. "You of all people know I do not like being useless."

Then it was almost like being knocked breathless, as for a moment Maitimo's expression shifted to one Findekáno knew intimately well - the one that declared that it was not that Maitimo could not believe Findekáno had said what he said, or that he had done what he did, but rather that for a moment Maitimo was grasping for what it looked like, to live in a world where what he had just said or did made sense, or seemed sensible, and felt as if it might be too far away from the one he resided in.

It was a familiar look, and one Findekáno was in truth fond of, as strange as that might seem. And it was one that he had missed so much that seeing even its shadow, exhausted and pale, came with relief so sharp it was almost its own pain.

Findekáno reached out to brush Maitimo's cheek, where a scratch and bruise were beginning to fade.

"I am exactly where I wish to be, tyenya," he said, as Maitimo caught his hand and pressed Findekáno's knuckles to his lips, briefly. "I am not going anywhere. And there is nothing you need do or say, right now, except tell me if you are in pain so that I can find remedy for it. All else can wait until you have the strength for it."

Maitimo looked at their hands against the blanket for a time, and Findekáno thought he might be groping at words that did not wish to obey him yet again, so he stayed quiet, though again it near took biting through his tongue.

But he was right, and eventually Maitimo looked at him, almost with wariness.

" - where are we?" he asked, and it felt to Findekáno almost like there should have been words before it, and maybe after, that Maitimo wished there to be other words - but that those ones were the words that stayed trapped, with only these escaping.

He wondered if there might be other questions, too, that would have come first, but this was the one that pushed free.

"Most call it Hyarestolië - we are at the southern edge of the lake, the Lindëmista, the one the Avari here call Mithrim. We had crossed the green land between here and that húnaxa set of mountains, but - "

Maitimo nodded, just barely, and said, "I heard you."

Findekáno stared, breath catching and stilling in his chest. "You - " he began, and stopped, and inside his head he hissed at himself for an idiot for not thinking, for . . .

"I knew you - those we left behind - were not all dead then," Maitimo said, looking at their hands. "Even though _he_ laughed at me for calling out, and they would not leave me to hope you were among the living - but I did still."

He seemed distant and Findekáno for a moment was grateful, as he struggled with the new horror of this thought, of one he was not able to wholly grasp and needed to set aside, as Maitimo's eyes stayed on their hands.

Findekáno could not, in this moment, fully consider what it meant to know that as he stood in front of those gates with his father and his brother, Maitimo had heard them, and called to them, and he, Findekáno, had not known. He pushed the thought away, put it away, to try to understand much later.

When Maitimo was not just here, awake, holding tightly to his hand and - it seemed - alert to every sense of him, and afraid he would go away somewhere.

After another pause, Maitimo's jaw went tight for a moment, and then he asked, "My brothers - " and this time the words seemed like they had been forced out, the tightness of them enough to shake Findekáno fully away from the horror of his other thoughts.

"They are encamped on the north edge," Findekáno said. "They withdrew at our return approach."

And then honesty compelled him to say, "Eventually, after Tyelkormo and Atarinkë finished posturing."

Then he stopped, because the breath that Maitimo let go seemed almost a gasp, and he swallowed and let go of Findekáno's hand to cover his eyes for a moment. Though this response, at least, Findekáno felt surer how to read, and he leaned over to stroke Maitimo's hair.

"Nothing has come of it, tyenya," he said, quietly, but definitely. "Nothing except some shouted insults, some shield-rattling, and these days there are a half-dozen in each camp who sneak out to meet each other on the lake or around the western end, and think they are doing it secretly. Irissë knows who those are, I think, and Artanis. That is all. Your brothers pulled back to that side when we returned, and there has been nothing since. All six of them are alive and well, as best we know," and then again, honesty compelled him to add, "beyond that the northern shore is marshy and more full of little biting flying things, and so I would guess much less pleasant."

Maitimo seemed to struggle to catch his breath again, and Findekáno shifted closer to catch his hand again.

"No message has been sent yet," he said, quietly. And then though in truth it would be far, far from anything he wanted, he added, "If you want - "

" _No_ ," Maitimo said, grip on Findekáno's hand tightening, eyes widening, "please, Káno, I beg you, I cannot - "

"Shhh, tyenya," Findekáno interrupted, sitting up so he could move Maitimo's hand to his other and still hold it yet put his fingers to Maitimo's lips, then cradle the side of his face, before he could become more agitated, "shhh, _tyenya_ , I will not, we will not, shhh, that is fine, Maitimo - I would _rather_ not, I am _happy_ to wait."

Maitimo's had stopped, eyes searched Findekáno's face for a moment, and then he nodded, and his breathing slowed again as he subsided a little. Findekáno kissed the back of his hand, and held it in his lap.

"Naicë has told us to wait," he said. "Nerwen has told us to wait. If you wished otherwise I would make it so but I am _happier_ to take their advice."

Maitimo shook his head and looked away, as if through distance. He closed his eyes as if against pain.

"I should," he said, barely more than a whisper. "I should wish otherwise, I - but I do not. I cannot - " he stopped, and exhaled, and shook his head again. "Not yet," he said, and it sounded more like a plea.

"Then not yet, tyenya," Findekáno echoed, save that his echo was the stronger. "They are alive, and other than midges and frustration they are well and they are safe - it can wait."

Maitimo's eyes had filled again, despite his best efforts to blink the wetness away, and he seemed to have run out of words for now, but he nodded. And closed his eyes when Findekáno leaned down to kiss his forehead.

"I think you should sleep now, tyenya," he said, resting his forehead against Maitimo's and so feeling him nod. "And I will sleep, too; I will go and get what is needed from Naicë, but I will be back in only a moment, and we will both sleep."

Naicë met him at the curtain, but looked a little surprised. "I was coming to tell you not to overburden your luck," she said, mildly, and handed him the cup.

"I - with reason," Findekáno admitted, considering it. "He will sleep now." And then he added, "And so will I."

Naicë's surprise balanced the fact that her answer was a dry, "Wonders never cease," that both annoyed, and yet with which Findekáno knew he could not truly argue. Instead of trying he took the cup with a small gesture of thanks, and stepped back from the curtain.

He blew out the two lamps; the coals in the braziers gave enough light for Maitimo to drain a small cup and for Findekáno to arrange the bed for sleeping. Maitimo reached for his hand again, after he lay down, and Findekáno took his.

There might have been something Maitimo wanted to say, but the hasama took him to sleep first, eyes settling closed between one blink and the next, and Findekáno kissed the back of his hand.

It could wait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a few moments, but only a few, before Findekáno slipped out from between the curtains and then paused to look at Atar in mild disbelief. 
> 
> "You are still here," he said, with a glance half-upward that might have taken in the angle of the Sun, had it still been visible instead of hiding behind the clouds. Atar looked back at him with a patient expression. 
> 
> "You had not yet emerged, so yes," he said, with the same patience in his voice. 
> 
> And Itarillë, to her slight - but, admittedly, merely slight - horror, found herself bursting out laughing.

VI

_i._

It rained again in the night, but Irissë was happy enough for that. They needed a handful more nights like it at least. For now, the rain was still washing the grit and ash out of the air - and onto the world around it; it would be a little while yet before it started washing it off the rocks and grass and leaves as well.

She was alone for the morning watch. Naicë had capitulated enough to go back to her own tent for at least two watches now that she was certain that none of the sutures were infected and that Maitimo would not succumb to thirst or starvation; Itarillë had taken the second watch and then allowed Lindomë to shoo her back to her own bed without arguing; and halfway through that second watch Irissë had convinced Nerwen to stop being absurd and take a tonic against sleeplessness if she really could not sleep on her own, and go _rest_.

In the end, Nerwen had given her a level look and said, _If you do not wake me by fourth watch I will_ remember it _, Irissë._

It might have been more threatening if her cousin had not had to stop and suppress a yawn partway through her name.

 _What do you think is going to happen while you sleep?_ she had demanded, a little exasperated - and then had to grant the point when Nerwen only stared at her, pausing in the middle of moving towards the door, as if she could not quite credit that Irissë would ask such a question.

When the answer was, indeed, _anything and everything_.

 _Well enough,_ Irissë had acknowledged, _I will_ wake you _if anything happens, and I will wake you by the end of fourth watch regardless._

She could tell that Nerwen was exhausted, because her cousin had not responded to that slight shift in her agreement. Whether she missed it, or decided it was not worth arguing about - either way, it meant that Nerwen was truly drained.

Irissë was not wholly sure, as yet, what thoughts were keeping her cousin agitated and awake and not wishing to stop long enough to think them: when she had asked earlier in their argument, Nerwen had paused, drawn her hands over her face for a moment and then said, _Ai, Isa - let me tell you later?_

The childhood name was its own sign, as well, and Irissë had kissed Nerwen's forehead and assented. _If you rest, yes,_ she said, which is what had begun the rest.

Halfway through the third watch, Irissë had also sent Centawen and Aikaniel to rest, and to take the rest of this day and the next for themselves.

Maitimo and Findekáno still slept. She had looked in on them, more than once, but her brother had the look of deep dreams, and her cousin had that of the sleep that came with Naicë's more powerful hasamar, and that was likely for the best.

She also did not fail to note that Káno slept on his side, facing Maitimo and as close as he could be without interfering with the careful alignment of Maitimo's body in sleep - and that they were hand-in-hand as they slept.

The two of them and what lay between them had always made Atar uneasy, she knew, and Turukáno had always objected to it, even before Fëanáro had driven the family divisions and unhappiness to the point of full public attacks. Irissë knew that both her father and her brother had hoped that when Maitimo went with his father to Formenos and Káno made no apparent effort to follow, that was a clear sign of the end of it.

She had known better. _Elenwë_ had known better. Even _Amillë_ had known better, unhappy about it though she had always been.

Even at the time, when the subject had arisen, Nerwen had openly told Turukáno that he would be foolish to think it - though only once. That was often her way: she would say something once, give a single warning, and then let the matter rest until events proved her right. Irissë had learned to pay attention when Nerwen said things, even if sometimes it was maddeningly unclear how she thought she knew them.

Irissë sometimes thought her cousin spent too much time around the Maiar. She went to the Valar as well - she had even gone to Nyeretári's retreat, which few enough ever wished to do - but she went far more often to the Maiar, seeking them out in particular.

Nerwen had said that where the Valar would be so often be allusive, speaking with such care that their meaning became opaque, if you approached them right sometimes the Maiar would tell you more than the Powers would. The Maiar might be less concerned, Nerwen had thought, that they might tell you more than they were permitted, and even where what they told you was beyond your understanding at first, they were more patient and more willing to stay with you until you came to the place that you could reach what made their meaning clear.

And maybe that was true - but maybe, Irissë had sometimes thought, there was a reason the Valar were more concerned with what her own kind could rightfully, safely know and understand.

Still, it wasn't as if Nerwen would listen to that kind of thought. And it did not matter now, anyway. How could it?

Whatever the case, Nerwen had been right again - more so than even Irissë had understood at the time. For though she had known Atar and Turukáno were wrong about what Formenos meant -

\- well. She had not ever imagined Findekáno would do what he did.

Irissë shook away the thoughts by shaking her head.

Despite the rain, there was no chill in the air, and after making sure that the sleepers were warmly covered Irissë tied open the door to the tent and let the fresh air in. There was even enough of a breeze that she tied the gauze back as well, there being unlikely to be many flies or biting things that would try to get in.

Letting it into the other side of the tent, at least more than would filter through the linen, would have to wait. But still.

Irissë found herself grateful for the change in her brother's tent. It was . . .something of a relief, to look around it or even to think on it without hearing in the back of her thoughts her mother's voice decrying and lamenting its inappropriate barren emptiness and worrying that Findekáno would leave it thus.

Irissë missed her mother. And it seemed unjust in the extreme that she should be deprived of her mother's presence, while still being forced to listen in her own mind to the endless wrangling between her mother and her brother about whether or not his indifference to such things - including not only his dwelling, but his clothing and adornment and in truth anything where appearance was not necessarily linked to the proper function of . . .whatever it was - bespoke a lack of care and consideration.

It was not true indifference, at core, and Irissë knew that; Findekáno simply drew the line between decorum and indecorum in a different place than Amillë did. It was not that, for instance, her eldest brother ever attended a feast or a function of importance in anything less than impeccable garb and grooming. He simply did not _care_ when it came to, say, spending the day with his horses - at all. Then, for example, as long as the clothing covered him well enough and was more or less clean, Findekáno would wear it; as long as his hair was out of his face and stayed there, he did not concern himself overmuch with how he achieved that.

As far as Irissë could tell, even based on what stories people told her of her brother's childhood, this had always been so. There were things that Findekáno certainly agreed required solemnity and formality and decorum and care given to these details; he had a study in his dwelling-spaces in Tirion, for example, that had been well-appointed and designed to make it clear that he took the concerns of whoever came to him there quite seriously.

It was just that Amillë thought near everything deserved that care, and her eldest child firmly disagreed. And this had led to a great deal of argument and frustration on Amillë's part, as well as orders to those who attended the laundry to discard any clothing of Findekáno's that began to show wear in holes and tears, and the replacement of missing buttons, and so on, without his asking.

Because Findekáno would probably never ask.

The back and forth on the matter had been a ubiquitous feature of Irissë's entire life. That their mother had never given up on the matter demonstrated well that not all of Turukáno's stubbornness came from their father. But now, thanks to Maitimo's presence - however ironic that might be - perhaps Irissë would not _hear_ their mother's disapproval every time she looked at where her eldest brother slept. She would like that.

She would like fewer reminders that Amillë was not and never would be here.

Because Irissë had tied the door open, she saw Turukáno out of the corner of her eye before he actually ducked into view in the entryway, and she turned to point a warning finger at him that was only mostly in jest.

"You may only be here if you are not going to start a fight," she warned aloud, also only mostly in jest.

It was _mostly_ in jest, because she did _believe_ Nerwen that Findaráto said that her second brother had come to his senses, and that Findaráto would know.

But it was _only_ mostly, because she also knew her brothers. Both of them.

And Irissë had by now had more than enough of people who shared her blood trying to kill one another. That they would both rue and regret it later would be no help; even if neither of them was injured, the moment would still have come and gone, and Irissë was in no mood to allow that.

"And speak softly," she added, making sure her own voice was not loud, "they are both still asleep."

Turukáno, dressed in a dark blue and grey, gave Irissë a look that was half exasperated and half resigned, bound together with fond amusement.

"Mára-arin to _you_ as well, nésa," he said, dryly, but he did keep his voice down. He shed his boots and set the softer indoor shoes he also carried with him on the ground to put them on. He was carrying an open box covered with a heavy cloth.

"I come with all that is needed to break fast," he added, as he stepped into the tent and leaned over to set it on the table, with the air of one dutifully delivering a welcome gift.

Irissë gave him a sideways look. "And you have my gratitude," she said, with a tinge of mock-wariness, "but now it makes me apprehensive that you come _already_ bearing something for appeasement."

Turukáno snorted softly, folding the cloth away and taking out the small closed stoneware jar at the top to hand to her.

"Do not look too hard for the reason," he said, with more of the fondness and more gentleness to his amusement. "Atar is far more anxious than he would admit aloud, and we spoke this morning."

Irissë had to cover her mouth, less because Turukáno would not know she wanted to laugh and more to remind herself not to laugh aloud, because of her sleeping charges. She knew precisely what to picture in mind, with her brother saying that. And though she had not seen Atar in the last few days, their duties running at angles that missed one another, given what Nerwen had said of his one visit to this tent, Irissë could well imagine it.

"I reached the limit of my ability to watch him _not_ speak of things," Turukáno said, and here her brother gestured to the entire tent as a way of encompassing everything, "with such obvious effort, so I eventually volunteered that I would come and see how all proceeded. He began suggesting things I could bring, until I simply promised to bring the morning meal."

Irissë had opened the jar while he spoke, still suppressing a laugh, and shaking her head. "Including at least three rations of honey," she noted, and licked the stickiness off her finger.

"I believe you are meant to share that with our brother," Turukáno said, mildly, and she made a face at him.

"You did not need to tell me," she said, pretending aloof, flicking her hair over her shoulder with her free hand. "Have you eaten?"

"Early," he replied, "though if trespassing will not end with my horrible death, I can make yullas to go with your meal, and would happily have some as well."

Irissë ignored his hyperbole, and gestured to the cooking brazier. "Food and drink are made over on this side," she said, and then tilted her head towards the further part of this half of the tent, "tonic and other brews on that side, the biggest dolium with the wooden cover is water, the kettle is beside the brazier, do not burn yourself."

As she had ignored his hyperbole, he ignored her warning, and with a similar dignity.

Then, as he dipped the kettle into the dolium to fill it with water, he asked, in a more serious tone, "How is our brother?"

Irissë sighed, as she took the makings of the meal out of the box he brought them in, and set them on the table to see all of what was there.

There were cakes of bread, but also some of the small fish wrapped in pastry that Maxarnis had begun to make, and bowls of the dried fruit cooked with honey, and some of the strange nuts that someone had discovered trees full of by the creek last month.

There was also hulled rice that could be cooked, and the heavy milk from the few kine they had been able to trade for with the Avari, that was mostly reserved for the very small children, for hasama, and women carrying babies when Naicë declared they needed it. Atar was, indeed, more worried than he would admit aloud.

Irissë wondered if Naicë had spoken to Atar, or if Maxarnis was being unexpectedly attentive. The milk-cooked hulled rice was the next step, in cases of starvation, after enough of the milk-broth that Naicë thought the body was ready to remember real food. Maitimo might well be approaching that point - and of course Maxarnis presided over all of the food for the camp, even when allotting it to them, but if Atar -

She was allowing her mind to wander from her brother's question, she knew, and schooled herself back towards the matter of their elder brother, and his current state.

"Itarillë said last night that he is less well than he would like us to think," she told Turukáno baldly. "Or than he would like to think of himself. She did not say that it _worried_ her, just . . ." She paused, tilted her head at him and asked, "How much do you know?"

Turukáno put the kettle on its hook to boil and shook his head. "Little enough," he admitted, with little discomfort. "My daughter would have told me last night but I put her to bed when she began to yawn in the midst of explaining, and yesterday . . . had other concerns."

There his voice turned irritable again, and Irissë wrinkled her nose.

"The road?" she guessed, and he waved a gesture that both confirmed her guess and said he really did _not_ wish to speak of it.

The stonemasons and the earthmasons were locked in dispute about how best to build a permanent road between the lake and the firth, which would be needful if only for salt supplies. Atar also thought it would be wise, given that some of what they had heard from the Avari - and managed to understand - implied that there was a whole group of mariners at various points on the coast, and it might be easier to travel and later trade that way than across mountains.

Irissë was not that well versed in the nature of either stone architecture nor of earthworks, but the dispute had something to do with the placement of one particular bridge when considered with the nature of the waterways and the state of the ground in spring -

\- and also, in truth, with the consideration that the chief of each craft _hated_ the chief of the other in a petty and resentful way.

It had begun as a dispute over the hand of the man who had eventually become the husband of the chief earthmason, but it had long ago spun out from there, with both of them behaving very badly indeed, such that Atar had censured both of them already.

Publicly.

They were being more subtle with the dispute over the placement of the road, but only a little; if they had not both been the best at their craft, Atar would have dismissed them both to simple labour as a duty long before now, at opposite ends of the encampment, and Irissë knew that he was rapidly approaching the decision to do so regardless. But it would make things more difficult.

Irissë tilted her head the other way, considering. "If Atar is close to losing his patience with them, he might ask Nerwen to preside, first, as a last chance," she said. "It might do her good to have something to solve, and to be sharp with. And if they continue to act like miserable children, he cannot say he did not give them every opportunity."

Turukáno paused in spooning the morning mixture into the yullas-pot. "It is a thought. I know he has not wished to interrupt," and he nodded slightly to the other side of the curtains.

"Something has upset her," Irissë said, "and something she does not wish to speak of, at least not yet." She shrugged, arranging the food onto plates and into bowls. "I know Naicë tells her more than she tells me, and I am _perfectly happy_ that it should be so," she added, firmly. "But it also means that she may have more to chew over that cannot be solved, and you know how that can be."

"Especially for her," Turukáno said, but the teasing was gentle, and in that way sympathetic, because that much at least they did share.

There were times when her brother found their cousin particularly aggravating; indeed there had been times before his marriage that they had clashed badly, or at least Turukáno had become very angry at Nerwen and it had taken some time before he had been willing to reconcile.

But one place they had always been in sympathy was the drive to solve those difficulties that life threw in their path, and a quiet horror when presented with those that could not be solved.

"I had to harry her to sleep last night," Irissë told him. Then she set the plates aside before she sat across from her brother at the table. "So for now, tell me what you do know, so I know what else to tell you."

Turukáno said, "I know that Findekáno went to Angamando, that he found Nelyafinwë there and that Thorondor brought them back, and I know that Nelyafinwë is in a poor state; that is all, so far."

Which was little enough. There was some relief in that, in truth: if that was all Turukáno knew then that was likely all that most of the encampment knew.

Irissë was not sure that she agreed with Nerwen about waiting to send word to Maitimo's brothers - it felt almost cruel, to her, though she could not find a strong argument with Nerwen's reasons - but she _was_ sure that if that was the course they would choose, the less likely it was the news would get to the other side of the lake before an official embassy, the better.

And the less the camp knew, the less likely the few who thought their journeys back and forth between the camps were secret were likely to try to make another, so soon. They would wait and try to learn more, before they took what they thought was the risk.

"'Poor' is too gentle a word," Irissë said, grimly, and Turukáno's eyebrows rose. She sighed again. "Of that first night I would say the better word was 'dire', háno, and as yet I would choose something between 'grave' and 'grim'."

His eyebrows rose higher, and there was some gratification in that.

She went on, "When on the first night Naicë told Findekáno that she doubted Maitimo would die unless he wished it, I wondered if I had heard her lie to comfort someone for the first time - and yet Káno took no comfort, and instead clearly feared that he _would_ wish it."

Her brother looked startled, likely that he had not gathered this much from his few moments in the tent. Irissë felt a wry half-smile on her face.

"You were not in good state to notice much, before Atar made you leave," she said, and reached over to take and squeeze his hand gently, to take any apparent sting out of it and make it clear that she offered an explanation, not a criticism.

"Apparently not," Turukáno murmured, looking thoughtful but returning the touch in a token of understanding.

"Káno had to cut off Nelyafinwë's hand at the wrist to free him," Irissë went on. "He must have been suspended from that wrist somehow for some time - his shoulder is _destroyed_. I thought I might be ill when I saw it first, and I am only glad Findekáno did _not_ know enough about our bodies to know what he saw, or he would have been far more distressed that night, and it was already difficult enough to watch him. As well, Nelyafinwë has been starved, and I thought he would die of thirst that first night - we could not even give him water by spoonfuls, his swoon was so deep."

She shook her head. "I will spare you more," she said, because she was not eager to detail further details that still disturbed _her_ , "but take that there is more _to_ spare for what it is worth."

Turukáno nodded slowly, while Irissë paused to gather her thoughts, and remember what he had asked to begin with.

"Itarillë says she found our brother in distress yesterday," she went on, "after Nelyafinwë fell back to sleep, and that he defended and danced away from speaking of it - she thinks he feels guilt, both that he waited so long to do as he did and that he could not find some other way to get Maitimo free, and she thinks there is something else that she does not know how to guess at yet, but that it is grieving him and perhaps frightening him deeply."

For a second she hesitated, while her brother seemed to absorb this; she wrestled, for that brief stretch of silence, with whether or not she should say this now, or leave it. But then she took a deep breath, and said, quietly, "And - you should know, háno: Nerwen says that Nelyafinwë had no part in burning the ships."

Turukáno looked at her sharply, and she shrugged. "She says that Fëanáro ordered it, and the others obeyed, but he did not. And . . ." she hesitated again, but given that she had told him this much, it felt dishonest not to say the rest, "she told me that _he_ said Findekáno should have left him, or only killed him, not saved him. Because he did not stop them."

For a moment Turukáno was very, very still, so that nothing showed on his face and less passed between them. Then he let out something more than a sigh, and leaning his elbows on the table put his face in his hands for a long moment.

Irissë stared at him, for that much she did not expect, nor the complicated rueful, guilty regret behind it. And when after a moment he dropped his hands with a half a painful laugh and said, "And of course the Lady would have known," she added a frown to her stare, and barely restrained herself from kicking his shin for being cryptic.

Turukáno glanced at her and shook his head, but also held up one hand in apology. "I will explain," he said, "just . . . give me a moment. And some yullas," he added, turning to that task.

He did tell her, after he had poured the boiling water onto the leaves and steeped them. Irissë listened, knowing that her eyes had gone very wide and very round.

When he had finished, Irissë blinked several times and then offered, "I suppose it is . . .better than finding this out later after . . . " she trailed off and spread her hands, attempting to indicate all that _might_ have happened, that it was difficult to put into words.

"I cannot disagree," her brother agreed, but still a little rueful.

After a second's hesitation, Irissë rose and went over to kiss his temple, and he returned half an embrace from his seat.

"Do not be unkind to yourself, either," she advised, and he laughed softly. "But also do not blame Findekáno if he begins on the defensive. I do not think he had fully . . . .considered what he might find. Or what that might . . . " she stumbled and shrugged. "Do, I suppose. To himself. Or anything. What it might mean."

"I don't think any of us have," Turukáno said, soberly. "I am not sure we could."

Irissë nearly agreed, and then said, " - I think Naicë has. But she doesn't like to tell even us more than she must."

There was the soft ringing sound of the candle-clock dropping its pin, and Irissë glanced at it. "There are things I need to make and prepare," she said, distracted, and then, " - tell me about the road, háno? I think I would like to think about something else."

_ii._

This time wakefulness came as a sliding from the darkness of sleep to knowing daylight through canvas, the feeling of fingers combing his hair back from his forehead, and Káno's voice saying, "Mára-arin, Maitimo - wake up for a little while?"

And for a moment -

For a moment.

For a moment the air twisted tight in Maitimo's chest and for a moment in the sluggish slowness of his waking mind he could not breathe, and for a moment he wanted to shrink and a strand of thought in his mind began to warp and twist and made him want to shrink away because he knew -

But in here in front of him, Káno's eyes remained grey and his own and he touched the side of Maitimo's face, shaking his head a little. "Shhh, tyenya - it is still me, I promise. But it is morning and you will need to eat and drink soon, so I thought perhaps not to wait until pain or bad dreams woke you this time."

The words made slow sense of themselves in his mind, and Maitimo nodded; there was a dull ache in his shoulder and side, not enough to have dragged him awake yet but there, now that he was, and he - maybe he was hungry? Maybe that was what that feeling meant.

He wondered if he would ever be able to think again, truly think, instead of stumbling through thoughts like some kind of wounded animal. He wondered if that was all he was: thin shreds of poor attempts at thought woven around that much at the core.

If he was, that core eased, a little, when Káno leaned to kiss his brow and repeat, "Mára-arin, Maitimo."

Maitimo tried to turn his mind towards the task of sitting up, but before he could, Findekáno rested a hand gently on his left shoulder and said, "A moment," and reached across to the table by the bed and took the jar of salve that the nestandë had left there. "It might make sitting easier," Káno offered, opening the jar and sniffing at it almost suspiciously, then holding it and tilting his head as if in question.

Maitimo remembered it, and thought that he should remember what the nestandë had said of it; but in truth what he _remembered_ was that it had felt strange, but had not hurt, and so what he _knew_ now was that Káno's mind likely was not dragging itself forward as if through clinging wet clay, and so if he thought it was wise to use this first, Maitimo would not argue.

When the nestandë had first spread it on his skin the . . . night? was that right? - the night before, the strangeness of it had distracted Maitimo and drawn his mind away from being aware, maybe from understanding, the feeling of a hand moving over his shoulder and his ribs. This time he expected the strangeness - the feeling of cold-that-was-not-cold, brightness that was somehow in the skin and was what stinging would feel like if it did not hurt - and so for a moment everything slid close to the edge of . . . . something not good.

The edge of the kind of memory that ate away at the moment. That he did not want. And Maitimo felt the beating of his heart grow faster.

Findekáno's hand stilled and he said, "Tyenya?" and the moment broke, went from teetering on the edge of something to stumbling back away. Maitimo felt himself take a deeper breath than he meant to, felt his ribs protest, but managed to look up and shake his head, rest his left hand on Káno's, even if he could not manage words.

The strange feeling of the salve stretched away from the skin it actually touched, so that it spread all the way under the brace even though Findekáno did not try to move it or press his hand under it. Finishing, Káno looked at his own fingers and palm and frowned at them slightly.

"That feels - " and then he seemed not to have the words, but turned his hand over and shook his head, looking at it. "It feels as if the water of a cold spring is touching only the parts of my hand that the salve touched," he said, finally. "Or near them, anyway."

He looked at Maitimo, seeming suddenly worried. "Is it. . . " and then he didn't seem to feel sure what he was asking.

For a moment, words were something like possible, and Maitimo managed, "It feels like that, but it travels." And he traced with his other hand to where the strangeness stopped, a half a hand-span or a little less from where Káno had spread the salve over his skin.

"Does it help?" Findekáno asked and Maitimo had to think for a moment.

Eventually, he nodded, and managed to offer, "I think so?" aloud. And Káno seemed pleased with that. And it did seem less difficult to sit, both in the act sitting up and in staying that way while Findekáno moved pillows behind him.

Then a voice came from the curtains, saying, "Háno, come and hold this open for me." And it was Irissë's voice and Maitimo felt his throat close tight on words again.

Irissë still wore white, it seemed. When Findekáno did go to the curtains and hold one side back, his sister slipped past him, carrying a tray and with a drink-skin hanging from its strap on her arm. A thin coil of thought wended for a moment through Maitimo's mind, wondering how she kept her clothes from staining here, but then she had moved to the cluster of larger low table and chairs and now everything in his head tangled and knotted itself up.

His chest tightened and it became hard to breathe; he found himself both unable to stop watching every movement she made, and at the same time he could not look at her directly, while his throat closed ever tighter.

Some of that eased as Findekáno followed close behind her and then sat on the bed, putting himself between them.

More thoughts twisted their way through Maitimo's head - grasping at some kind of explanation and then worming into painful, bitter amusement and disgust, at fear that made no sense and guilt duly owed.

And belated, lagging behind, the knowledge that there had been someone else in the other side of the tent, just barely glimpsed before Irissë's movement dragged his gaze to her, unrecognized. And part of Maitimo knew more fear at that, and at not knowing who it was, and the rest of him did not wish to know.

Did not wish to think of who it might be, of _anyone_.

There was no one it could be without the guilt and the disgust with himself both increasing, and he could barely endure either as it was.

Irissë was speaking. Had spoken. Both. Had spoken, was speaking, if nothing was strange, as if there was nothing beyond ordinary. The knowledge of what she had said tumbled into his head like something dropping down stairs, strangely out of time with the words he could hear: a greeting to both of them, that one catching in his head as somehow his amilessë in her mouth echoed with voices he did not, did not want to remember -

\- and then something about rain over the night before, and Maitimo grasped at the thought that they still used the same word for the time with stars and now the weaker new light, but the words for the great light were . . .Káno had used them, _Anar_ , and then the words shifting from _arya_ to _arin_ , and then back to _lómë_ -

And something about the food, that there were. . . the same things as before, but also something else. Something with rice, and something with fruits. Maitimo knew he had heard, and there were things he now understood and knew that he had not before, but it was hard to remember _what_ he had heard.

What Irissë had truly spoken.

Maitimo was conscious of the marks on his neck and throat, of the shapes that would be so clear in them no longer covered by bandage cloth; he found that he had moved his left arm to rest across his waist, the sutures on his wrist turned down and hidden; and he also felt the twisting, mocking thought, that called him a fool, and asked him who he thought had been there to give the nestandë her thread while she sewed his gaping skin closed.

Mocked him with memories of who had changed the bandages before - how long ago now? Maitimo was not sure - after Findekáno had picked him up off the floor, and asked him what he thought he could hide now that she did not already know.

And it was true, he knew it was. But he could not make himself move his arm.

*******

Findekáno was conscious of wishing his sister would leave. It was ungracious and he had no wish to say it, not truly, but yet: it remained.

His thoughts pulled in too many directions. He could feel - how could he not? - the tension that grew in Maitimo beside him as Irissë moved about the room, and he caught the way Maitimo turned his arm to hide one of the wounds that Findekáno knew ate at his mind; and yet he knew, just as well, that Maitimo would hate that her presence troubled him so, and hate more to think that anyone else knew it, or took heed.

That it would be humiliating to be seen so.

And that thought was part of a creeping dread, the shape of which Findekáno knew was struggling to fully see: that the wounds he could see were horrifying, that the thought that Angamando could make Maitimo fear him even in mistake was sickening, but that there was also something . . . more, that the body might heal and that specific kind of fear might fade, and yet -

Naicë's words came back to him: _And so with each torture you inflict you drive your victim to carry on your work for you after you have left them, to further your own purpose by loathing and despising_ themselves _for the agony you inflicted._

That, that idea fit into that creeping dread and if it was not all of it then it still stretched as the frame, the skeleton ready to carry all the rest. And Findekáno could not see it whole, and nor did he know how to counter what he did see.

He tried to push all that away, for now.

Irissë did leave, at last and Maitimo ate - truly ate, if slowly, taking not only the invalid's broths but also the milk-cooked rice, after Findekáno stirred the fruit into it and held the bowl.

At first it was clear the slowness was Maitimo's choice to be slow with his left hand rather than clumsy, but after half was gone, he seemed almost reluctant and Findekáno felt moved to say, "You do not have to eat more than you want to, tyenya."

And took how Maitimo let the spoon go as his answer, so that he put the bowl aside. Maitimo pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

"It began . . . it felt uneasy," he said, as if in apology. As if it were something to apologise for.

"It is the first thing you've _eaten_ for a long time, tyenya," Findekáno pointed out, gently. "And more than you have eaten or drunk at once for that same length of time. Your stomach is not used to stretching."

For the tail end of an instant there was a shadow on Maitimo's face, one that made Findekáno uneasy enough to set the thought of eating aside to think over again later. But then it was gone and Maitimo nodded.

Findekáno saw the tightness in his jaw, and that when Maitimo took his hand from his face he set it on the bed to lean on, and asked, gently, "Shoulder?"

The tray his sister had brought had both kinds of hasama on it, and when Maitimo nodded Findekáno almost asked him which he wished - but he hesitated. He did not like the way Maitimo's eyes had dropped before he nodded; he did not like the feeling of _apology_ from explaining why he did not wish any more to eat.

And in the moment that he thought of asking which Maitimo wanted Findekáno suddenly felt unsure he could trust the answers - or at least, that he could trust that whatever answer Maitimo gave him would be . . . . would reflect what Maitimo truly wished. For if Maitimo asked for the one that did not bring sleep, Findekáno was not sure he could tell if it was because Maitimo did not wish to sleep yet - or that he felt that he should not.

Nor, if Maitimo chose the other, was Findekáno sure he could tell whether it would be because Maitimo wished rest, or if it was because Maitimo knew that Findekáno would not go anywhere while Maitimo was awake, and felt guilty for that.

Or if Maitimo would be ashamed for wanting to rest, for what he might see as weakness.

Asking the question seemed unwarrantedly fraught. Findekáno did not like that, either. He was unsure what to do about it.

So for the moment, he took the first, the one that did not force sleep, and gave it to Maitimo; then he got up, and found Naicë's green book where he had left it, on the ground beside the long chair. He put it on the arm of the chair, and then went back and took the empty cup.

"If the answer is no I do not want you to tell me _yes_ ," he said, sitting down as Maitimo watched him. "I do not wish to make anything worse, tyenya. But Naicë has said _if_ you feel well enough, even a little movement is a good idea - but only _if_ ," he repeated, just in case. "So given that, do you think you can come and sit with me, and look at something for a while?" He tilted his head towards the chair.

The wording was careful; this way, at least, he felt there was a good chance Maitimo would respond with what he wished, and not anything else. It was still a near thing; Findekáno was fairly certain that had he not leaned on that _if_ to begin with, Maitimo would have said _yes_ and then done his best to make himself, regardless of anything; as it was, now, Maitimo did pause and seemed to think for a moment first, before he nodded.

It was clear that it did take a great effort to cross the space, even with Findekáno's help, but when he eased Maitimo down onto the long seat of that chair, Maitimo had not paled. Nor did seem particularly difficult for him to sit and wait long enough for Findekáno to settle himself against the long-chair's back and then to draw Maitimo to lean against him, so that they could both see the book without twisting.

It took a little care for Findekáno to settle his right arm around Maitimo's waist so that he might hold the book without jarring Maitimo's arm or shoulder, but not so much, and it was simple to reach across his left to turn the pages.

"This is Naicë's so it is full of horrible detailed drawings of what we look like without our skin," he said, lightly, because it did deserve some forewarning. He had not found it quite as distressing as his cousin and niece implied, but it was certainly gruesome enough.

To Findekáno's surprise, he felt what might have been the start of a laugh before the movement turned it into a suppressed, pained breath; and Maitimo still managed to say, "I have seen them - or, not them, not these ones, this book, but Amillë had - has - the same kinds of books. Tyelko and Carno used to dare each other to look at them, until they tore a page and she made them copy the whole quire new for her."

Somehow, Findekáno could easily imagine that, for all that Tyelkormo would have been grown before that could happen, given the difference in age between the two. He could imagine that happening when both of them were grown.

"Then I can worry less that I will shock your stomach sour," Findekáno said, and it was some small relief. He had felt it was worth the risk, but still - better this way. "Though I feel safe to guess that you did not study them much."

"No," Maitimo agreed. He had learned sculpture from his mother, Findekáno knew, but carving the shapes of living things, animal or Quendi or invented in the mind, had not held any particular interest for him, and Findekáno could not truly blame him.

Nerdanel's work had been so lifelike it could be uncanny, and you could not question the skill of it, so it had always seemed impossible to question the purpose but in truth, if Findekáno wished to see a horse or indeed a person so perfectly shaped, he . . . felt it made more sense to go and look at one. A living one.

"Naicë gave it to me because I worried I would do something wrong without knowing and make the injury worse," Findekáno said, skimming over the words lightly, and going on, "but it is your shoulder. I wanted to show you what has happened to it."

The book was not only the detailed drawings of what the body looked like without skin, and in some cases without flesh as well or with parts of it cut away, but there were also many images of what injuries looked like both with and without skin obscuring them.

The pages were very thin, as thin as they could be without becoming translucent instead of opaque, and there were very many of them, and Findekáno had wondered at the labour that must have been taken to make it, and how long it must have taken.

Each section began with a drawing of the part as it looked if you just looked at someone; then different drawings of the anatomy underneath - sometimes more than others - and then the drawings of injury.

The first time Findekáno had looked through them he had felt light-headed and had to stop more than once. It was strange: he had seen death in many shapes by now, and while some had been worse than looking at the drawings, most had not, and even those that were, they were not laid out in such a way for study. There was some added layer of uneasiness arising from that.

Familiarity made it easier, and this time he did not need to pause until he found the right page. Though he could not see Maitimo's face, he could guess at what it might show from the feeling of Maitimo's body as it leaned against his, and if anything Maitimo seemed more curious than anything else, under the battle of tension against pain and the weight of the exhaustion that continued.

"See - " Findekáno shifted carefully so that he could reach and trace the lines of the drawing. "The bones are here and here, and here, and then the ribs start here, but they are all separate - this part," and he traced the other lines, "is not bone, it is a kind of sinew that holds bone together. It is what allows them to move. And here," he turned the page, "is what yours would look like, if we could see them."

The drawings here were not only of what lay beneath the skin, but more than one of what the injury would look like to the eye as well, and somehow those drawings were still harder to look at.

"This and this are both torn, Naicë says," Findekáno went on. "And this part, the joint where the top of the arm should be in here - was behind over this way, and that tears at this part. And here - " and he pointed to where beside the breast-bone there were more of the bone-sinews that tied rib and collar-bone and breast-bone together, "and here," at the ribs below the shoulder, "she says are stretched more than they should be, and this part at the rib has separated, too."

Maitimo made a very faint sound like _hnh_. Findekáno briefly cradled his head and kissed the side of it.

"So it is no wonder it hurts," he said, which was the point of it. Because he suspected it was one thing to feel the pain, and another to understand what it meant, _why_ it hurt, why it could not do otherwise.

After a moment, Maitimo said, " . . . how did it not just . . .tear off?" sounding so puzzled that Findekáno had to suppress the laugh, because he did not want to jar Maitimo against him.

"Naicë says skin is far stronger than we think, and unless something begins a cut with a sharp edge it is almost impossible to tear as long as it is alive," he replied. "It is not _hard_ , so it is easy to cut, but it is almost impossible to tear just by pulling."

" . . .I will take her word for it," Maitimo said and if he sounded weary he also sounded less hesitant than before. Findekáno leaned his cheek against the side of Maitimo's head.

"She says it should heal, that there is enough for the bone-sinew to knit itself back, though she says it may always be a little weaker than before. So you may have to avoid hanging from that arm," he said, and then wanted to pull the words, the jest, back in, not really having thought it through before letting it out.

The beginning of the breath of laughter eased that, though it was replaced by fleeting guilt about the wince that he could feel. But fleeting, as Maitimo said, "Don't make me laugh yet, Kányo, it still hurts."

Because the words came in tones that were familiar, and if rueful they were . . .comfortable, and comforting in their familiar resigned frustration with the state of the world that Maitimo could not bend to his preference, but must endure as it was. They were something he might have said after an unfortunate fall from horseback or accident in a workshop or in the construction of a building.

Maitimo sounded like himself.

Findekáno shifted to close the book and set it aside; Maitimo's hand found his, and Findekáno kissed the side of his head.

"It just takes time, tyenya," Findekáno said. "Kindler, this is only the third sunrise since Thorondor brought us back and I still feared you would die. That is no time at all."

Maitimo interlaced their fingers and pulled Findekáno's arm further around him; after a moment he relaxed, a little, and that was something.

After another moment, this one of silence, Maitimo asked, " - how long does it take?" and then, "- the . . .Sun, I mean, rising to setting, how long is it? I . . . could never tell."

"Twice the Mingling of the Lights," Findekáno replied, "more or less - I hear some of the navigators are arguing about it. The same with the Moon, but he is wayward; I think they have worked out how he wanders and so why he is in the sky with the Sun sometimes and not others, but I admit, I have not paid attention to it."

"I did not see it see either much after the first nights," Maitimo said, "but I could feel the Sun even when I could not see it, unless it rained."

His hand tightened on Findekáno's, and Findekáno kissed the side of his head again. "Do not think on it, tyenya," he said. "You have plenty of time to get to know them."

******

When Irissë came back out of the sleeping half of the tent, she could nearly _feel_ the way in which Turukáno was carefully not frowning and not asking her anything. Could feel how he restrained himself from intruding with his thoughts.

Privately, part of her hid her own smile. It was a touch exasperated, but genuine enough: it was remarkable how quickly, once he had a chance to reorient himself, her brother could start feeling the need to interfere and evaluate any situation, and whether or not everyone in it was playing their roles properly and to best effect.

She also had to grant that in this case he _was_ making the effort to bite his tongue, and to remember this was not his domain and that, in fact, it was her own.

And truth told, she preferred the touch of exasperation in her amusement to dwelling on the unease with the way Maitimo had reacted when she spoke his name; the way he had for just a heartbeat looked at her as if he did not see _her_ , but someone else.

Or something else.

So outwardly Irissë kept her voice mild as well as quiet when she said, "Yes, I am aware that most likely caused Nelyafinwë some strain; that is why I have already come back out, háno."

"I said _nothing_ ," Turukáno protested, also keeping his voice low.

"I know," Irissë allowed, but added, "I think _Amillë_ in _Tirion_ could hear you saying nothing, Turut," with a little bit of asperity, as she sat down.

Turukáno shot her an annoyed look and caught one of the thin braids she had kept loose from the knot of them at her neck and tugged on it. She lightly kicked his ankle.

"Naicë spoke to us about this already," she went on, sitting down to take the rind off one of her own pieces of fruit and dip it in the honey she had poured out for herself. "Nelyafinwë has not seen others except those who would do him harm for months now. There is no way to accustom him once again to other people without there being other people _near_ , and that is best done starting with small, controlled moments of presence, around some purpose."

Turukáno gave her a sidelong look. "Have you told our brother this yet?" he asked, meaningfully, and Irissë blinked at him.

"Naicë may have," she said, and shrugged.

"Because our mother may have been able to hear me saying nothing," Turukáno replied, dryly, both of them still very quiet, "but _I_ could hear how much Káno wanted to bodily pick you up and deposit you outside the entire tent, nésa."

"Káno was - " Irissë objected, but Turukáno was already shaking his head as he interrupted.

"Káno _behaved_ as if he were composed and comfortable, Rí," her brother corrected, "given I cannot think he thought you meant any harm, but believe me, that is how he felt."

"If you say so," Irissë replied, keeping her voice neutral, not wishing to get mired in an argument. He gave her another sidelong look, and then shook his head.

"Avatyar'nin, Rí - I am not trying to find fault," he said, mouth quirking a little, sounding as if he were carefully choosing his words. "I think it might be . . . difficult to see how strong the need to defend that our brother might feel may be - even from those whose help he also needs - if one has not felt something like it."

"That was a tortured sentence," Irissë replied, shortly, and added, "and if that is so, I do not wonder why that might be."

That was perhaps unfair, the exasperation surfacing, but Turukáno did not truly rise to it.

"And you will note I am here, and waiting, and aware that I may wait for some time, in order that he may know and perhaps believe that he has less cause than he thinks," he said, patiently. And she did have to grant him that.

After a pause she said, "Itarillë will be happy to be home," and her brother briefly wore the smile that was only his daughter's to inspire.

"I hope she is," he replied, simply. Then he made a slight face. "She manages us all, you know."

"You have Nerwen and Elenwë to blame for that," Irissë replied, aloof. "Not me."

"Oh, I am aware," her brother replied, trying and failing to sound put upon instead of proud. Irissë broke the rind of a second fruit.

"- you expect to wait some time?" she asked, those words having just caught her. Turukáno sent her an amused glance, and then put a finger to his lips before tapping one ear and tilting his head towards the curtains.

It took a moment to sort through the sounds, and even then she could not hear what either her brother or their cousin was _saying_ but after a moment Irissë had to admit that it _sounded_ as if her brother had moved their cousin to the long chair, and . . . settled there.

A glance at Turukáno did not tell her how he knew, but did leave the strong impression that yes, he believed Findekáno intended to stay there for some time.

She felt a brief pang of irritation. "He has not eaten," she said, dropping her voice again.

"I do not believe he cares right now, nésa," Turukáno told her. "And all of it will keep."

Irissë might have had some reply, but another pin dropped from the candle-clock and she glanced at it and sighed.

"You can stay and keep watch for a moment, then," she decided, saving herself the effort of finding a messenger and giving herself a few moments walk in the open air to shed her annoyance instead. "I promised Nerwen I would wake her before the end of this watch, so I might as well go now."

"As you will," her brother agreed.

******

After Findekáno set the book aside, they spoke some time more. Maitimo asked about the words for the parts of the new day, and night: morning, noon, evening, sunrise, sunset, and what words remained from before but now had different meanings, because the world had changed around them.

Findekáno told him about the Moon after the Sun rose, and how it ceased the regular track and steady silver light, instead growing and shrinking and growing again; how the time of day when it rose or sank changed as well, so that sometimes it lit the darkness with the stars, obscuring some of them, but other times it seemed to chase the Sun and showed as a pale shape in the bright sky.

He explained how the navigators were still arguing about it and about when precisely to begin the day - or rather, when the day should begin, because Atar had lost patience with the argument and declared the count of hours would start at the moment the Sun had completely set below the horizon, counting twelve hours for night and twelve for day with those hours broken into six watches of four hours, and that was the end of the discussion.

Atar then told the navigators he did now want to hear any more from them on the matter until they had all agreed - or at least come as close to all agreeing as ever happened, among their people.

Since it was obvious that they would never all agree, Atar had not heard from them since, although everybody heard them from time to time, and "arguing about the sunrise" had become a byword for a waste of time.

If he were pressed, Findekáno might have been forced to admit he was finding things to talk about as an excuse to simply keep speaking. Maitimo gave no signs of wishing to move, and Findekáno would rather stay here, holding him. It was comforting, and it meant that he could more easily feel how Maitimo . . . was, he supposed - feel tension and release, whether a stillness came with a winding tight, or was merely a pause in motion.

It let him discover that gently moving his hand along Maitimo's left forearm, staying clear of wrist or elbow, seemed to be soothing, and so did brushing fingers over his scalp. And that as that release came, so it seemed to become easier for Maitimo to speak, and less as if the words had to be chosen so they would slip past some horrible net - and equally that when Maitimo tensed, words became once again strangled and halting.

Let him explore what to speak of that allowed the first, and avoided the second; and if the weight of Maitimo against him was disturbingly little, he was at least there, living and breathing and present and if remaining in this moment meant Findekáno merely needed to find things to speak of, that was a very little price.

Findekáno was not sure of the precise moment that Maitimo fell asleep, but it also did not matter. When he was certain of it, he stopped the story of how the quarrel about the roads had begun, letting his voice fall silent, but Maitimo might have been asleep for some time before that - some time between the moment he had let the full weight of his head rest against the front of Findekáno's shoulder, and the moment Findekáno stopped speaking.

It did not truly matter.

If Findekáno was right in his guesses at how long the two different hasami relieved pain, Maitimo would not sleep very _long_ , for much as it seemed less potent than the other, this one seemed to last a shorter time. So for now Findekáno would stay where he was, and let Maitimo sleep.

Findekáno knew that he perhaps should not. He knew his brother was in the other half of the tent, and also that he himself was likely hungry, though his thoughts felt too heavy to let him feel it, and he knew that Irissë was almost certainly under instructions from Naicë and Nerwen and Atar to see that he ate. And that would likely be more sensible.

It would perhaps be wiser, on all fronts, to have helped Maitimo back to bed when it became clear that he was drowsy, so that he could drain the other cup and sleep through until evening, and so that after he was asleep Findekáno could go and . . . speak to others, do other things, for a while, without fear of failing at his promise.

That would perhaps have been wiser.

It was simply that Findekáno did not wish to do any of that. So he did not, and he would not. He would stay here, like this, for as long as he could.

His mind felt like a room where one put everything one possessed that had no proper home, with the intention of putting it away later, and did so over and over - but like such a room at the moment that one opened the door and found all in disarray within, no more room, and the sudden knowledge that _now_ need be that _later_ , whether one wished it or not, for when one opened that door half of the things within now fell out.

Except Findekáno still did not know what to do with everything that lay within.

He had done what he had set out to do, and so perhaps there was some irony in being in such a state still. Maitimo was here, and alive, and recovering; indeed, if Findekáno judged rightly, Naicë was already surprised at how quickly he recovered. That itself was the core of all of this, for Findekáno himself, but he was not a fool and he knew what else it meant as well - what it meant for the Noldor as a whole.

For whatever they meant to do on this continent their Enemy seemed to wish to claim for his own.

Findekáno had set out to do what he had done because it had become impossible not to, and he had found no other choice. He could not continue with things as they were; and yet more argument had led to no progress, and he knew his father and he knew his brother and he knew when he could not move them. And if perhaps he might have persuaded Findaráto - then what?

He could only see a louder argument, and nothing changing. Could only see stasis stretching in front of him, useless waiting until they were finally destroyed - and useless waiting, with grief eating at him like acid, and guilt at knowing that Maitimo might yet live, and he did nothing.

Yet if he could not of plain self-interest and prudence convince his kin to so much as offer terms across the lake, Findekáno knew he had no hope of . . . .anything more. Save only by trading on love and loyalty in ways that would leave others torn in theirs.

So he had . . . done what he had done.

It had been a small enough risk. Death did not particularly frighten him, when all was said and done, and if capture did - and it did - well -

His capture would not change the fate of the Noldor all told, nor of this place they had come to, and so be it. Grief healed, or so others had kept telling him before, and he himself was far from necessary, leaving grief the only consequence of his being lost to the host: all that he could do, others could as well, or better.

It would at least force _something_ to change, before their Enemy looked out over to them and realized how vulnerable they were, and killed them all himself. Or before a spark flared between the encampments, and they killed one another.

Findekáno _had_ given thought, in broad themes, to what would happen if he succeeded. And those broad thoughts still held. Were more true, even, knowing now that Maitimo would have come back for them, for knowing that would lead others more easily into agreement. If it deepened Findekáno's anger and contempt for Maitimo's father, well: _he_ was dead, and good riddance.

It was a bitter thought, but it was true, for whatever wreckage Fëanáro had left them with and whatever it dragged them to in the end, at least he was no longer here to make it _worse_.

Findekáno had little doubt that Fëanáro could have made it worse. Easily.

He had not given much thought to smaller themes, because he could not: they had loomed before him as open pits without light. Worse, they had loomed as something that ate at his thought and paralysed him: he knew that Maitimo could easily be dead, and he knew that there might well be no chance of success, and even if he succeeded he . . . could not imagine what came next.

It was maybe not surprising that he was now _in_ what came next, and still Findekáno had difficulty imagining it. There were things that he could not guess before that were now clear to him, but at the same time there were new things he could not grasp.

He _was_ tired, Findekáno realized, but only in his mind - not the weariness of missed sleep or hard labour, but the kind that came from within the self, fëa and sáma. He was tired, and - here he forced himself to admit it, if only to himself - he was still afraid.

Afraid both that no one would realize how badly, how _deeply_ Maitimo was hurt - and also that they _would_. Leaving him protective and defensive in two directions, both of them facing one another.

He rested his brow against Maitimo's head. Truth told - and likely it was best he hew to the truth, particularly in his own mind - he did not even wholly trust father or his own siblings here, and certainly did not trust Maitimo's. He was wary even of his cousins, despite what Nerwen had said yesterday.

Very little of it was fair or just to any of them - well, speaking of his own or his cousins, and perhaps Malakaurë, anyway - and yet.

And yet.

No small part of Findekáno's heart wished he could make them all go away, or that he could take Maitimo away, until Maitimo was stronger and safely sure within himself again, until he could not be harmed by them, not even by mischance. It was a foolish part; Findekáno knew that. That was why he had come back, why when Thorondor had bid him say where he would go, Findekáno had asked him to return here.

He needed not only aid, but in many ways _their_ aid, no matter if he wished it were otherwise. He knew that.

It sat uneasily. All of it sat uneasily, unsettled him, made him edgy and too easily angry, and Findekáno could feel all of that just beneath his own skin.

But for the moment, at least - for a little while - some of that was eased by staying here, with Maitimo asleep against him, in a sleep that had come easily and without aid from any art or craft, and that seemed peaceful enough. Findekáno would consider the rest of it later. The rest of the room in his mind would wait.

It was not that much later that Maitimo's shoulder did indeed wake him.

Findekáno was fleetingly grateful that the long chair was more sturdy and steady than the net beds, or Maitimo's sudden attempt to recoil, half-awake and wholly panicked, would have overset it. Findekáno didn't like to imagine how much that might have hurt Maitimo's shoulder, arm and side.

As it was, there came the bitter-tasting realization that at least Maitimo's being so weak meant Findekáno _could_ catch his cousin before he fell or hurt himself, and mostly without doing harm.

"No no no - careful!" he said, trying to catch Maitimo so that he could turn and see him, so that he did not end up tumbling to the ground, but yet was not . . . trapped. "Careful, Maitinya - all is well, stop, look at me, Maitimo, stop, look at me - " he caught Maitimo's left arm with his right hand and with the other guided him to meet his eyes, " - ai, tyenya, stop. Shhhh, tyenya, you are safe, it is only me, all is well. Stop."

And he did stop, but it took another moment of searching Findekáno's face before Maitimo seemed to believe what he saw, and sagged out of the tension of fear. And then began to ask forgiveness, but Findekáno stopped him.

"Shh, my fault, tyenya," he said, drawing Maitimo forward to rest forehead against forehead. "I let you sleep and did not think about the waking."

Findekáno thought that at least it seemed a little easier for Maitimo to let the fear go, this time. That once he knew, or believed that what he saw was true, that belief sank deeper and quicker and easier than before. He hoped he was right, for many reasons.

It also seemed clear to him that Maitimo was only awake because of the pain and that moving and talking earlier had still exhausted him, so Findekáno helped him back to the bed and found the other cup, which Maitimo emptied without argument.

Findekáno sat holding Maitimo's hand until he was certain Maitimo was once again entirely asleep; then he drew a hand over his face and sighed.

He should probably find food, he supposed. The ongoing murmur of voices told him that there was someone on the other side of the cloth that might be able to help.

_iii._

It had clouded over again by afternoon, but as far as Itarillë could tell no one wanted to risk complaining about more rain. On the one hand, it did seem that at least for a while, the Enemy had given off filling the whole sky with smokes, ash and fumes; on the other, it had been so miserable for so long that it seemed unwise to complain about the air washing itself clean.

Still, as they made their way to Findekáno's tent, Lindomë gave the sky a brief and plaintive look, so that Itarillë did not really hide a smile.

"I do not mind the rain," Lindomë half-protested. "It is just the mud."

"You cannot have rain without mud unless you are on bare rock," Itarillë pointed out, reasonably. "At least it is not snow."

Lindomë gave an overdramatic shudder. She had been among those most unhappy when the colder months had indeed brought snow even onto the solid land of Endorë, even if by no means heavily or brutally enough to compare with Helcaraxë.

Then Lindomë gave Itarillë a sly, sideways look. "At least then your honoured father would not sigh about your bare feet," she said, innocently.

"If my honoured father is not careful," Itarillë retorted, "I shall learn to run barefoot over snowdrifts to spite him. I had come close enough to managing the running part by the time we reached land already."

Sometimes, Itarillë's mother had insisted that the Weaver enjoyed very small jokes and would weave them into the shape of the world where she could; Itarillë found herself thinking of that as she came into her uncle's tent to find, seated at the table, her father -

\- who looked up, looked pleased to see her, and then looked resigned to find that despite the continuing dampness of the grass, she was still barefoot.

Itarillë crossed to kiss his cheek, as Lindomë curtseyed slightly, and told her father, "No, my feet are not cold, and it is nowhere near chill enough that it is reasonable to be afraid I shall lose toes, Atar."

"You see," Irissë said, from where she stood by the table for healing work. "I am not the only one who can hear what you do not say."

"Indeed, nor our mother," Atar replied, dryly, as Itarillë bent her head so that then he could kiss her cheek in turn. "Mára-rë, hinya," he added.

"Mára-rë," she replied, assuming that the remark about hearing unspoken things came from some not-quite-argument her father and aunt had been having and letting it pass. "Are you hiding from the stonemasons?"

"No," her father said, "although I may wish to tomorrow morning, today is free of them, and I am merely making use of this time to be sure I am prepared for it. I am waiting for your uncle to come out and break his fast."

"It is past midday," Itarillë observed, as Lindomë moved past her to take up the portioning out of herbs to powder from Irissë, who was washing the dust off her hands.

"Yes," her father agreed, "so for his sake he should break it soon, but that is entirely up to him."

Itarillë gave her aunt a questioning look, but Irissë merely looked upwards briefly as if for patience and gathered herself to go. She said that Artanis was awake and reviewing rations and other arrangements for the next six-day, that Naicë intended to return for first watch, and other little details of what they needed to know.

Atar appeared to be looking over the conflicting plans for the roads, and their conflicting solutions to their problems, an assortment of drawings on salvaged paper keeping place with notes on wax tablets. It was annoying him; Itarillë could tell, because he kept raking his hair back out of his face and setting it slightly askew. She shook her head, hiding a smile, and left him be. She was happy enough to have him as quiet company.

She was happy enough to listen, as well, as Lindomë filled the silence - without truly breaking it, for she did not speak loudly - by telling Itarillë all that she had gathered of the various happenings in the encampment over the past day or so.

Itarillë had learned long ago from her mother that it was best to know these things, and that one's companions were often the best way of learning it; that people would say things to, or even near, someone like Lindomë or Rilyawen that they would never dream of breathing near someone like Itarillë - and yet so many of these things were things people like her needed to know.

Even if they were trivial things, things that needed nothing done about them in themselves, even if they were _good_ \- her mother had been very firm that you needed to know them, to know that they were happening.

That it meant as much to know that there were two new pairs courting, or that someone was teaching their friend to read, or that someone else was taming a new hawk - that these things were happening, and continued to happen. To know the rhythm and flow in the lives of the people you presided over, to know of the eddies and moments.

You might not need to recall every little instance, and you might not need to do anything about them, but by _knowing,_ you knew more about the people who were your duty; by _knowing_ , you knew the surroundings of your task, much the way that a hunter needed to know the woods she walked in.

The most important thing Itarillë drew from Lindomë's talk this morning, in truth, was that while there was still interest and curiosity about this tent and what had happened, and what continued to happen, and indeed there was even excitement, there seemed to be little anxiety, and little apprehension: if people wondered what their prince had done, and even if they believed the rumours of Nelyafinwë's presence were true, nobody seemed to be afraid, or even angry.

At most, there was a current of nervousness because everyone was aware - apparently - that Artanis did not wish to hear anyone gossiping about it, and yet here they were, doing just that.

Itarillë found the trust that seemed to her to underlie all of that both touching and almost alarming. It seemed like a heavy weight. She did not think she could have trusted so easily, knowing as little as the people of the camp knew, that those above them could be so relied on.

But perhaps she should just be grateful that as yet there were no signs of trouble.

When the sound of sudden movement came from the other side of the curtain, Lindomë broke off mid-word, and all three of them, Atar included, looked to the curtains as if they might be able to see through it.

For a very brief moment, hearing the words _no no no - careful!_ , Itarillë felt a shadow of the same protective near-embarrassment that she had felt the night before, only more so because there _were_ others here, now.

Thankfully it faded as Findekáno's voice quieted, and the words became harder to hear. After glancing at Itarillë briefly, Lindomë picked up where she had left off, although Atar seemed to be finishing up his attention to the plans and setting them aside.

It was a few moments, but only a few, before Findekáno slipped out from between the curtains and then paused to look at Atar in mild disbelief.

"You are still here," he said, with a glance half-upward that might have taken in the angle of the Sun, had it still been visible instead of hiding behind the clouds. Atar looked back at him with a patient expression.

"You had not yet emerged, so yes," he said, with the same patience in his voice.

And Itarillë, to her slight - but, admittedly, merely slight - horror, found herself bursting out laughing. Or at least, suppressing a burst of laughter, and drawing everyone's eye directly to her, which made it worse.

She could not explain, and did not intend to. She could not _explain_ that her uncle had plainly not quite meant to say that aloud, that it had clearly come to his mind and then out of his mouth without asking his good judgement, or indeed any kind of judgement at all; she could not _explain_ that coupled with her father persistently sitting here, waiting for him to come out, and even with her aunt having left, shaking the entire thing from her fingers for at least a few hours -

Itarillë could not explain aloud, here, how all of these things together made a portrait of all three siblings that Haruni could have framed and titled _why I named them so_ , and no one - not they, not Haru, not anyone - could argue with her.

If you could turn moments, with all their pieces and fragments and contexts, into portraits. But that was not the point. The point was that Itarillë could not explain that aloud for any number of reasons but it was still true, and she had to strangle her laughter.

That laughter was also several days of tension finally snapping, as her heart felt it safe to let it ease, and it was easily dismissed as youthful amusement, so Itarillë waved her father and her uncle away, and tried to gesture to Lindomë to give her uncle the food Irissë had left for him, while she herself attempted to find her decorum once more.

Lindomë took the food to the table, managing to dart in front of his seating himself to put it down before he reached his seat. Findekáno began to say, "My thanks - "

Then he stopped, and sighed, and said, "Your pardon - I have to admit that I have forgotten your name," and his exasperation with himself did nothing to help Itarillë suppress the need to laugh.

"Lindomë, my lord," Lindomë said brightly, with a small curtsey, and at least Atar was also having to briefly suppress a smile.

"Lindomë - my thanks," Findekáno said, and sat. Then added to Atar, "Not one word from you."

"What could I possibly be about to say?" Atar asked, innocently, and Itarillë had to turn around. Having come back around to this side of the higher tables, Lindomë gave her a bemused look, and wet one of the cloths folded in the basket to one side in the cool water and handed it to her to put against her face and the back of her neck.

"Thank you," Itarillë murmured, after a second for the distraction of the damp cloth to work. "You will have to forgive me, though, I _cannot_ explain." Lindomë gave her an amused look.

"You are forgiven, heriyë," she said, taking the cloth back and dropping it in the other basket that would go to the laundry.

At the table, Findekáno appeared to have realized - again - that he did indeed need food to live, and in fact that food might make life _easier_ to live, so for a moment he and Atar were quiet, until her uncle looked up from taking the fish-pastry apart and sighed.

" _Well_?" he asked, sounding exactly halfway between wearily exasperated and defensive. Atar looked innocent again.

"I have not even - "

"Yes, I know you have not," her uncle retorted, and then nearly made Itarillë choke on laughter again by saying, "I can hardly hear anything _else_ for how much you have not. So?"

"How _were_ you intending to get back, háno?" Atar asked, and Findekáno sighed. Emphatically.

"I _intended_ ," he said, with unconvincing and acid dignity, "to decide my course on that matter when I had a better grasp of the circumstances I would face."

Then he glanced at Atar again, and said, "Hush."

Itarillë had thought the night before about how her uncle was in fact the elder of the two; in this moment, she was struck by it again, though for different reasons.

In _this_ moment, the pattern she could see around her father and his brother was that which comes when the elder of two who are close, who should know better, who _does indeed_ know better, has failed to give full thought to something, and knows they have done so, and is salvaging as much face as possible in front of the one who was younger, knowing that it is very little.

It was a comforting pattern, one grounded in mutual knowledge and an assumption of affection; there was still a taught uneasy thread that ran through it, as if both were aware it would be far too easy to step off this path and into something far less happy, or comfortable, or safe - but at the same time, a sense that neither of them wished that to be the case, and so were merely stepping carefully along this path, to be certain that they would stay on it.

Atar did not answer directly, suppressing a smile instead and asking, after a pause, "How is flying, after all?" and even sounding genuinely curious.

" _Cold_ ," Findekáno answered, with a certain amount of stress to the word. "Very, _very_ cold. And the air becomes thin and difficult to breathe, like climbing too high on Taniquetil alone. And Eagles' feathers are more slick than you might think."

He seemed to glance at the table for somewhere to look, as if unsure where the next step on the safe path might be; then Itarillë thought his eye caught on one of Atar's plans, and he frowned, and pulled it out from the others. "What is this supposed to be?"

Itarillë did not wholly follow the sudden, rapid conversation that came after that, starting with Findekáno's puzzled question, but what she did follow seemed to amount to her uncle saying firmly that something that the stonemason had been insisting would work would not, and more critically why.

But in truth, she could see clearly that very little of it was about the matter of the roads or the bridge - or at least, that the roads and the bridge provided merely a comfortable way forward, a way to ease past this narrow, unsteady part of the path.

The path between the moment, two nights ago, that at the sound of his brother's voice Itarillë's uncle had stood almost as if he would draw the dagger at his belt in the next breath. . . and the moments after this one, where they were reconciled enough to pretend they had not been so badly at odds.

And towards the end of the discussion, Itarillë noted that her father not only looked a little less as if he were bracing himself, but also even pleased, and that did seem to be about the matter supposedly under discussion.

"- no," Findekáno said, finally, "I c- you could have Angaráto take her out there and have her dig down a foot and see what would happen for herself. Try to put that much weight on that soil and the bridge will fall in less time than it takes a willow to reach its height."

He had at least managed to keep eating while talking, or Itarillë might have had to interrupt. He also looked, she thought, not only a little less like an uneasy hawk, but also less as if he were pretending he weren't stricken. And Atar looked pleased with himself.

As it could not hurt, Itarillë put the last pastry by her uncle's elbow, while Lindomë found a new candle-clock as this one dropped its last pin.

This time, Findekáno probably ate more or less enough, if only because Itarillë kept putting food by his elbow and her father kept her uncle talking about the roads. Itarillë was unsure if Atar's design was to give his older brother something concrete to turn his mind upon, something with consequence but without high price to discuss, or if it was indeed coincidence, but he at least did not mar the opportunity.

Atar even managed to refrain from pointing out that this whole matter had started _before_ Findekáno left, and that in theory Findekáno could have told him - and Haru, and for that matter the masons - a great deal of this then, had he been paying attention.

Itarillë felt some affectionate pride for his restraint, given how much Atar had been frustrated by this entire affair and the behaviour of the Arimaitë in question.

It surprised most people, that Findekáno was better at intuitively grasping the nature and shape of structures and foundations than Atar: Itarillë's uncle always reminded people of wind and light, where her father always gave the sense of being solid and grounded, and few ever expected talents to run counter to that. They did not expect Haru's _eldest_ to be the one with deep intuition for what would stand and what would fall, what would bear weight and what would not, what would last and what would decay.

But Haru and Haruni both said that Findekáno had always been like that.

Indeed it had been the key to so many of the wilder things he had done as a child, Haru had said: somehow, Findekáno _knew_ whether a tree-branch would hold him, or the strength and balance of a tangle of deadfall, or a beam in a half finished building - or, for that matter, the state of the ground he ran across, or if it would take his horse if he rode. He knew just as much the strength of a rope, or the arc of an arrow, or any such thing: how objects moved or did not move in space was something Itarillë's uncle understood easily.

On the other hand, Itarillë knew Atar, Irissë, Haruni and even Haru himself all quietly despaired of Findekáno when it came to sculpture, painting, tapestry, even figures in jewelry and decoration in weapon-work beyond the practical - when it came to any craft or art that did not serve some purpose, except perhaps for music.

He would admit it was very impressive that an artist could capture movement, or light, or essence, or anything else, but would then also admit that if he failed to see the purpose in working so hard to carve a gem like a flower, when one could just . . . go and find a flower. He enjoyed and found pleasure in colour and image to a point, in shape and cunning and elegance - it was not that he did not have any grasp of beauty, it was just that at a certain point his interest in the beauty of craft and art reached its greatest extent and his attention would wander.

Findekáno would much rather dance than watch any dancer; found himself disinterested the artist's image of a running horse when he could be riding; and even music there came a point where if he were merely listening, that place in him was filled.

Itarillë thought she could understand how he felt, though she did not quite agree - but she loved seeing people's faces when they fully understood this about him for the first time. That if they wished a thoughtful opinion on a building's foundations they should go to Itarillë's uncle, and if they wished such thoughts on how to adorn that building beautifully, they should go to her father.

"If it wouldn't make Katkemnë unbearable, I would tell you to give this to Ondiel's student, the one whose name I always forget, who never looks at anyone when she speaks," Findekáno concluded, at the end of explaining in detail Itarillë did not attend to why the stonemason's plans would not work and should not be attempted.

"Apakendiliel," Atar provided, and Itarillë felt sorry for the stonemason: the name must carry some particular meaning or significance within her family, but it was still a lot to be given to carry, and Itarillë thought it could only have been given, not chosen. "You think she would be equal to it?"

Findekáno snorted. "The bridge might be less ethereally beautiful but I would be far more willing to trust that it would stay _up_ ," he said. "And that is a quality I prefer in my bridges, strange as it may seem."

"Katkemnë has been driving most of this difficulty," Atar said, thoughtfully. "She may have been correct about the problem with the proposed foundations but her behaviour has still been . . . unfortunate," and Lindomë snorted very softly, so that only Itarillë could hear.

Atar was understating the matter considerably; even a few of the earthmasons were unhappy with how their chief had been behaving, and the reflected disgrace they felt fell on them because of it.

"Does she have any students up to the task?" Findekáno asked, and Atar sat back.

"We can certainly find out," he said. "Sending both of the Arimaitë to cool their tempers with lesser work for a while might convince both of them to stop behaving like children."

"That is a remarkably hopeful thing to say," Findekáno replied, dryly, and Atar smiled a little.

"Well the air is cleaner around here lately," he retorted, "that helps." Then he looked more serious. He looked at his older brother consideringly for a moment and asked, quietly, "How long do you think it will be, before we should send across the lake?"

It was a carefully judged question: Atar was skirting the matter, and with something he might ask out of concern for wider duties. Itarillë could see why Atar might make that choice - she was simply . . . not wholly sure it was the right one.

She was not wholly sure it was not. So for a moment, she found herself holding her breath a little.

Itarillë could not see her uncle's face from this side, but she saw the depth of the breath that he took. "Truly? I . . . have no idea. Naicë might. He is . . .not well."

"Irissë told me," Atar said, in the same quiet voice. "Noinanyë, Káno."

When Findekáno said, "Truly?" his voice was almost uncomfortably neutral, but Itarillë thought she saw the shadow of a complicated smile on her father's face.

"Yes, háno," he replied. And then added wryly, "I do not think I am _particularly_ well known for tossing off commonplaces I do not truly mean."

"Not as a rule," Findekáno acknowledged, and then sighed. Itarillë felt herself exhaling with that sigh, with the sense of her uncle's acceptance of her father's gesture.

On consideration she poured two cups of the yullas she had made for herself and Lindomë and put them beside her father and her uncle. Her uncle took his and looked into it briefly as if it might give him answers to questions that vexed him. Then he took a mouthful before saying, "So: I do not know. I only know not yet."

"Well now that Itarillë has managed to feed you such that you are not likely to fall over at the first three steps," Atar said, in a voice of summing-things-up, "you should go for a walk while you can, you know. Breathe open air."

And then at the sound of the wind picking up a little he added, with a straight face, "Be like the grass, renewed by the rain," and Findekáno snorted, but Atar went on more seriously, "I mean it, háno. You will feel less like you want to tear things to little pieces after you have."

"Naicë will be back at first watch," Itarillë noted. "And the last hasama will last till then, or a little longer. Artanis will be back at sixth watch, she said," she added, remembering. "But we are barely into the fifth. You have time."

Her uncle sighed, but said, "You are . . . likely right."

Atar rose, gathering his tablets and paper, and paused to rest a hand on Findekáno's shoulder and briefly kiss the top of his head. "Truly, háno," he said. "It will help to take some time out under the sky. Go to the bathhouse at least, it will save our sister being driven to imitate Amillë whenever she next finds you."

Findekáno reached up to press his brother's hand and made a gesture at a half-smile. "Too late, hányo. But I do not entirely think she is alone there."

Atar made a play at looking thoughtful and then said, "I am sure the impulse will catch you eventually."

Then Atar went, and for a moment Itarillë's uncle sat, lightly pinching the bridge of his nose.

"He is right - " Itarillë began gently, and her uncle held up his hand to stop her.

"I am going," he said. "I am going. I will not be gone long."

_iv._

Irissë returned to her brother's tent at first watch in order to send Itarillë to rest, and to tell her not to come back until fifth watch tomorrow.

The girl Lindomë had come to ask Irissë for that, pausing when she crossed Irissë's path on one of her errands too and fro on Itarillë's behalf, and saying, "This is wearing on hérinya far more than she will admit to herself, let alone to another - but I know her, and I know how much it distresses her to be at odds with her father, and that wears on her as well. And it does not simply . . . " the girl waved a hand as if unable to find the word, "- dissipate the moment the conflict does, however much she thinks it should."

Irissë had hidden her smile, and agreed that was likely a good idea. It was all true, and true also that Itarillë was young and had yet to learn the best of her own balancing act. It would not be a hardship either, for within the next sunrise or so it was likely they all be needed less on-hand for this particular nautamo, especially since Findekáno seemed dead-set on doing so much himself.

But it was still endearing to see Lindomë so concerned.

Itarillë protested at first, of course, but Irissë gently shooed her out; since Nerwen and Naicë both agreed, Itarillë capitulated and agreed she would take the next morning to rest.

Irissë did not believe that for a second, or at least did not believe that Itarillë would keep to it of her own accord - but although Itarillë had sent Rilyawen to her family early, she knew that Laicarillë would be returning by the start of fourth watch tomorrow and between them Laicarillë and Lindomë were quick and strong-willed enough to at least keep Itarillë occupied with concerns that would let her heart rest a little, and not add to its grief, while making time pass quickly.

Her niece's newest arandurë was a sweet girl, Irissë considered, but was both too young and too new yet to manage Itarillë, given how good Itarillë was at managing everyone else. Not that this was surprising.

Nerwen looked less brittle than when Irissë had convinced her to sleep last night, and also had Valinárë with her - which meant that Valináreë and Nerwen's other aranduri had already decided that Nerwen needed assistance to _hand_ , and not merely making certain that all the tasks Irissë's cousin took on management of as a matter of course continued to be done, while Nerwen's attentions were mostly elsewhere.

That it was Valinárë also meant that Nerwen was likely ever so slightly resistant to the idea, or at least that her handmaids expected her to be. Not that Nerwen would reject the aid outright, but Valinárë was the oldest of Nerwen's women - no little older than Nerwen and Irissë themselves, in fact - and had been with her the longest, and was thus best at making sure that Nerwen did not seemingly-by-chance find a way to divest herself of her aid.

For the most part, the position of arandurë was a brief one: it ensured that the women of Irissë's family had the help they needed for all the duties and concerns it seemed needed to be done and were _not_ done if they did not see to them, and on the other hand for a time the young women who took on the duty learned a great deal about what was needed to manage and govern and also of nearly all the things they might wish to do themselves, that they might not otherwise see.

Then after a time they almost always moved on, mostly to begin households, and thereafter to whatever they wished. Except for a few, like Valinárë or Aikaniel and Letanis. Or like Amillë's handmaiden Serwen, and Haruni's Ornendilmë and Lúnaniel.

Nerdanel had none. Oh, she had students - many, in truth - but it was not the same; and Irissë had never been sure about Nerwen's mother. So much about how the Falmari lived and worked was different from either the Noldor or the Vanyar that it was hard to tell, and Irissë had never determined precisely how Eärwen Alquawen or her mother, Fanyawen, actually _managed_ their people.

Things just seemed to happen when they wished.

Irissë had never managed to make herself ask Nerwen, either. It felt as if she should already know, and asking would be admitting to her cousin that she could not work it out herself. And at this point, in truth, it did not matter so much.

When Irissë arrived at her brother's tent, Valinárë had been helping Nerwen sketch out and list the required supplies for the shielded outdoor space - apparently Rilyawen had suggested it, and when consulted Naicë had vehemently approved. Irissë could see the use, especially given how Maitimo had seemed to want to shrink even from her, still, earlier that morning; having other watching him might well be too much, to begin with.

It was strange and unsettling, still. Irissë could not say she had been _close_ to Maitimo, not . . . exactly, not the way she had been to Tyelkormo or Curufinwë. But because she had been close to them, their eldest brother had always been a shape in her life, and she knew that even to Tyelko and Curvo it had been far more like having another parent than how they were with one another, or with Carno and Lauro, let alone the twins.

Maybe even that was strange: there were near as many years between Tyelko and Curvo as there were between Maitimo and Tyelko, and more than that between Lauro and Curvo, and yet . . .

And yet Makalaurë had never loomed in her life or theirs with the same . . . presence. Had never been a figure she would unthinkingly grant the same authority she would, if not her own mother and father, at least as Eärwen and Arafinwë, or Nerdanel.

But with Maitimo she did, and knew her cousins had responded to him at least the same way they had to their mother.

Their father, maybe not, but Irissë . . . did not think anyone should react to a father the way they had to Fëanáro. She had never been able to put it into words, it not even to herself, but it had always bothered her.

It would have been disturbing to see anyone in the state Maitimo had been when Findekáno brought him back - or even now. But it was more so, given all of that. Adding the thought that somehow, for some reason, _she_ might be a source of fear or threat herself -

Irissë was still unsure what to think of that, how to understand it. It felt misshapen and uneasy in her thoughts and she was at a loss.

She _had_ been unsure, before, whether holding off on their message to Maitimo's brothers could be the better choice. Whether it was the least cruel out of many cruel possibilities.

But more and more, Irissë had to admit it might be. Given how uneasy all of this made her, how unsettled and unhappy, she did not see Tyelko taking it well. It might well upend his sense of the world more to see his brother like this than to think his brother was dead, and from Tyelko that kind of thing would . . . spread.

And Makalaurë would not be able to stop it.

So while she had little and no doubt that Tyelkormo would be _angry_ to find out, later, that word had not been sent immediately, Irissë more and more had to admit that it might still be the better of the paths they could take.

And then the strand of her thoughts that had over all this time learned to be a healer, to give the full aid a nestandë needed, looked at their _charge_ and at what weight he would have to shoulder the moment he could, and knew that this could not be good for him. And yet there was nothing she could do about it.

When Findekáno came back from the baths Irissë was able to catch him and make him sit to let let her properly braid and wrap his hair, although he rolled his eyes at her.

"Amillë is not here, and you need not make up for her," he said, sourly, as Irissë wound the leather strand into the second part of the braiding. She pulled on that braid sharply to retaliate.

"I can be horrified at your indifference to your state all by myself," she retorted, as Valinárë did a slightly less perfect job of hiding amusement than Nerwen did, and Naicë made no effort to do so in the first place. "And I am."

"It is hair, nésa," her brother said, patiently. "As long as it stays back out of my face most of the time, that is all it needs to do. If it gets snarled I can comb it, and if it gets too bad I can cut it off and it will grow back soon enough."

Irissë had to bite her tongue on the first response that came to mind, though by now that was its own habit. Once, her brother's obvious enchantment with Maitimo's hair would have given her fertile ground for retort when he tried this too-familiar argument - but that had ceased to be true after Fëanáro removed to Formenos and _now_ Irissë did not wish to so much as touch that theme.

"This way," she said, instead, with pained patience, "it will stay out of your face, _and_ it will not look like the frayed end of hemp rope after a few hours, either."

Findekáno had kept his air of put-upon patience until she had finished, and then gone into the other side of the tent to sit and read and wait until the hasama wore off and Maitimo awoke.

It was true, though. When he did it, his hair ended up fuzzy and dishevelled-looking after at most one day; now, he would probably still look genuinely presentable by this time tomorrow, even if he slept restlessly. That it was probably true that his archers, scouts and horses paid no notice was not the point: some others did, and besides, they had no horses now.

Sometime during the day, while Irissë had been elsewhere, someone had come up with the clever idea of hanging three strings of wooden beads from the covered approach to the tent, allowing something other than a loud call or intrusive bell to be the warning that someone was about to come in; there came the soft clatter of them, and then Aikaniel ducked back in.

Her hair was loose and she had the slightly bright-eyed look of one who has just woken more quickly than expected from a drowse.

Irissë frowned at her. "I said - " she began, and Aikaniel raised both hands.

"I know, hériyë," she said, with half a sigh. "But one of the archers is courting my sister's daughter, and they were sitting talking together while I rested, and neither of them is very good at remembering that canvas walls are much thinner than wood, never mind stone."

" - and?" Irissë said, gesturing for her to come in and sit down, which she did, gathering her hair over her shoulder.

Behind her she felt Nerwen and Valinárë standing and taking up the hasama, broths and gentle food they had made, and putting them in a square basket instead of a tray, and Naicë still at work at her measurements of this and that and the other that went into the hasama, with her book of notes beside her.

"In all kindness to them, hériyë, we should find some shape of the tale to tell your brother's archers and scouts," Aikaniel said, soberly. "I know it bears risk of increasing talk in the whole encampment, but they are all of them _very_ worried, and not a one of them feels he can come and find out anything, or even one to ask one of Aranaranduri to tell them. It is wearing on them badly."

Irissë sighed: it was easy to forget, she supposed, the part of the world that was _not_ causing you immediate trouble. "A just thought," she agreed, and restrained herself from pinching the bridge of her nose. "Thank you," she added.

"If you divert on your way back and find a runner to send for Aikanáro," Nerwen added to Aikaniel, "we will find something for him to tell them."

As Aikaniel left, Irissë gave her cousin a questioning look, and Nerwen shrugged, pausing just before the curtains.

"I told Aikanáro what we knew two nights past now," she said, simply, "and no doubt many of them will know already that he has a secret, although he will not have said anything to them. So it may as well be him."

That seemed wise, Irissë considered; Nerwen's youngest brother also commanded the significant respect of those he would be speaking to, for even those facets of self that could sometimes be difficult for their family - his fearlessness, and openness, and intensity of loyalty - were a cause of admiration among those he, his brother and Irissë's brother lead.

Qualities that were of great value among those whose duty lead them to seek danger were not always those that best suited those who had to lead and manage. But they did draw admiration.

"And Angárato?" she asked, aloud, and Nerwen shrugged.

"He will either wait patiently until Findekáno emerges, or he will be at the door . . . " Nerwen paused and looked as if she were considering, before she finished, " - sometime late tomorrow afternoon whatever anyone says. If it is the latter and the moment is not apt, I will chase him off then - or let Naicë do it."

There was the sound of a quiet but derisive snort from Naicë. Angaráto's obstinacy in the matter of his own injury had lead to his being on the receiving end of Naicë's full ire - something Irissë did not like to imagine. Since then, Angaráto had been remarkably unwilling to cross the nestandë's will again.

Irissë might have asked more, but in that moment there came the sound of waking from the other side of the curtains, and so all attention turned to tasks at hand.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She swam back to the docks to find Nornasímo standing, leaning on one of the posts for the lights, wearing the look he got when he was trying not to laugh at someone. Nerwen suspected it was the sentry, a guess that her brother confirmed by calling out, "You know most of the young ones find it a little disconcerting when araneli leap fully clothed into dark lakes after sunset and then do not come back for over a quarter of an hour." 
> 
> "Only the first time," Nerwen replied, placidly, swimming the last few feet with her head above water and then pulling herself onto the dock.

VII

_i._

_It is raining, and from the open window there is a breeze heavy with damp air smelling of merillë and nessamelda._

_Somewhere on the open waters to the east Ossë has spun a storm and out on the sea it might begin wild and vast but by the time it reaches the shores the wildness of the winds is merely play and by the time it reaches the mountains the peaks rake open the bellies of the clouds and they drop their rain and it is just breeze and just rain, the tinge of them shifting toward golden-red as Tyelperion fades to sleep and Laurelin waxes._

_(He screamed. Memory within dream within memory but he remembered this and he screamed, no, get away, get away, get_ away _\- )_

_There is a languidness to afterwards that Maitimo loves - release, openness, the soft brushing of Káno's breath against the side of his throat, the warmth of Káno's body against his side, leg hooked over his, fingers tracing the line of his ribs._

_These are moments he would stay in dwell in rest in where all is well and all is peace and all is for a glimmer of time as he might wish and he is content._

_He is content._

_(He screamed - )_

_Until Káno moves -_

_\- until Káno pushes himself up on one hand over him and now, now there is something wrong now there was something wrong it was a memory it was the memory was real and had happened what Maitimo_ remembered _was real but this -_

_\- this was no longer a memory this was no longer real and this was not Findekáno it just wore his shape, the eyes were red and black and Maitimo's hands were bound and chained above his head and this was not home, this is not Findekáno over him between his legs with one hand on his mouth and the other closing on his throat._

_Saying,_ And you left that to die on the ice? Tch. Such waste. 

_Cannot breathe cannot scream cannot - Maitimo cannot -_

_\- the iron around his ankles stripped and cut into skin already, hours ago, gone slippery with blood but too tight to matter and pulling against them hurt but he cannot breathe so cannot help it cannot_ breathe _-_

He _lets go and there is breath, air, and wishing, wishing it would not come, that the darkness would come instead that_ death _would come but no there is air and breath and new ache in his head and in his lungs and the burning of everything else and the foul, the vile, the sickness the -_

His _hand on Maitimo's jaw and Maitimo tries to jerk away but the grip is iron and_ he _forces Maitimo to turn his head, forces him to look and to meet_ his _eyes as_ he _says,_ Now you've shown him to me, though, I think I would like to know more. And I think you will tell me, lovely-one. 

_And_ \- 

(Dreams. These were, this was - ) 

"Maitinya. Tyenya, you are dreaming, it is only a dream, wake up." 

( - dreams he was dreaming he could wake - ) 

_\- he cannot, teeth on his -_

"Maitimo, melindyo, wake up." 

\- _breathe_ \- 

And - 

\- light. 

Soft light, yellow light, lamplight. 

And light. 

And a breath, like surfacing from water except then there was only the stab of pain at his ribs, from the breath and from sitting up Maitimo did not, did he mean to sit up? He cannot remember deciding but his body was already pushing itself to, throwing itself to sit up as if it would get him farther from the dream, the memory but it _hurt_ and Káno caught him, stopped him, one hand closing around his upper left arm and then the other hesitant, hesitating, touching his arm but pulling back, unsure where to hold. 

Maitimo stopped, because he had to, head spinning and side on fire and body not obeying him anymore or even the first fierce impulse of waking; he felt himself half-fall towards Káno and Káno caught him, drew Maitimo to rest against his shoulder, cradled Maitimo's head there while Maitimo struggled to catch his breath. 

His side screamed at him, pain beating with his heart. 

"Shhh, tyenya," Káno said, and, "peace, melindyo, all is well, you are safe. Shhh." 

And Maitimo tried to breathe, and to believe that, and to believe that if he pulled away and looked it would still be true, still be Findekáno's eyes looking back at him, and to push down the terror that it would not. 

Again, again it would not. 

After a moment, Káno said, "Ávatyar'nin, Maitinya," voice tinged a little wry. "I did not move faster than the bad dream this time." 

Káno's hand still cradled his head, fingers moving gently; Maitimo felt torn in half between the thread of thought that wanted to cringe away, shrink back, certain that the truth was only another layer to the torture of memory and deception and twisting dream - 

\- and the part that did not wish to move, _even if it were so_ , for the chance to stay in this moment, where it wasn't. 

Where Káno was alive, and here, and held him, did not hate him; where he was in a tent beside a lake the Avari called Mithrim and it wasn't a lie, and he hadn't killed the other half of his heart by letting Atar leave him behind. 

Even if it was all a lie, believing that for a little while longer might be worth it. 

In the end, that thread won, or at least it gave him something to cling to while his mind finished dragging itself from the fog of sleep, letting him understand the world around him. 

Findekáno shifted, but it was to bring Maitimo closer, turning so that he could draw Maitimo to him, to lean against him, and wrap his right arm under Maitimo's brace-bound one. And if moving, if Káno moving him hurt a little, Maitimo did not care, let it happen, let himself be pliant as any crying child awakened from a bad dream, since it seemed he could not muster the strength to be anything else. 

And he could not. 

His upper ribs ached and perhaps woken by that pain his shoulder began to burn as if somehow there were acid against his bones. Still he did not try to move, did not wish to move, let his head rest against the front of Findekáno's shoulder, clutching at _peace, tyenya; all is well_ as if it could be believed. 

The only light was lamplight; it must be after dark, after sunset. There were other things his senses grasped at, pieces of knowledge they gave him that he did not have the strength to make sense of over the growing pain in his shoulder and the effort against fear: the smell of something cooking, the sound of women's voices speaking low nearby and other voices calling or rising to laughter further away. 

The distant sound of two voices singing with the beat of a hand-drum underneath. 

There was meaning to make of them, something he could know, but trying to weave it was too much, and it all stayed a tangled jumble of impressions instead, beyond the circle of Káno's body holding him up, Káno's arm around his waist and fingers threaded in his hair. 

Until Káno said, "Here, tyenya - you need this," and carefully guided Maitimo up for a moment, as Káno took the pillows and made a pile for him to lean on and then helped him to do that. The ache in Maitimo's side pulsed sharp and then eased as he let go and tried to relax. 

Findekáno gave him the cup and by now the strange taste and the way it felt colder than it should in his mouth was familiar, and maybe approaching comforting; when Findekáno held the jar of the salve and asked, "Can I put this on your shoulder?" Maitimo managed to nod, though he still could not speak. 

Pain eased, and it became - slowly - easier to think. 

"Ávatyar'nin - ," he began, when words worked at all, coming just as Findekáno put the stopper back on the jar. 

"For what?" Findekáno replied, immediately. "Having bad dreams? When did that become a misdeed?" 

The shape of the answer, of the thoughts of the answer, came easily again - but the words did not, or at least words that did not seem like an equally childish and petulant rejection of grace. Maitimo caught Findekáno's hand instead and kissed it, for what little that might fumble at conveying. 

Káno kissed his temple. He had bathed, Maitimo thought, and changed in the time that Maitimo had been asleep: with this shirt the collar was whole, but there was a patch at the shoulder, and the braids that kept Káno's hair back from his face were less like the simple ones he did himself in haste, and more what happened when his mother or his sister managed to catch him after it had dried enough to put back but before he had done it himself. 

That meant Irissë, now. Anairë was not here. Irissë - maybe Itarillë if she had taken up the habit, but Maitimo felt his thoughts flinch away from her, for how it brought his thoughts to her mother now dead, and the gaping pit in his mind that he deserved but could not fall into, now. 

Not if he was to try to stay something more than shivering wreckage. He might deserve to be no more than that, but with his clearer thoughts he knew that Káno would stay with him even if he was, and Káno did not deserve to be forced to do so. 

So instead Maitimo tried to grasp at something else, something to build his thoughts on, and stumbled over, "It is evening?" though he knew that it was. The new word still felt strange, though. The word for the time where the greater of the new lights, the Sun, descended and its light dimmed, but did not yet disappear. 

Findekáno nodded. "Only just," he said. "Naicë says that you should eat, and then she will need to look at your shoulder once more. Then you can bathe and do what you wish until you want to sleep again." 

Maitimo dropped his gaze, though Findekáno caught his hand and went on, "She also said to say that although it may be difficult to believe, you will be able to stay awake longer as time passes." 

Then he made a small sound that seemed like a smothered laugh and Maitimo found himself looking up to catch the suppressed amusement as Findekáno amended, "In truth, she said to assure you that you would soon be able to stay awake more than long enough to get bored and frustrated with all that your shoulder will not let you do, but Naicë can be like that." 

Káno's thumb stroked the inside of Maitimo's wrist; his eyes were knowing, and he added, "It is also not a fault to need rest, tyenya. I doubt you had _slept_ any more recently than you had eaten." 

Maitimo felt himself blink, almost as if someone else did it. For there was the sudden stumble of thought as at first he thought to say - 

\- but then stopped and again - 

" - no," he said, found himself saying, softly, now looking again at Káno's hand. "No. I - there were dreams, many, tangled into each other, but it . . . was not sleep." 

Findekáno touched the side of his face. "See," he said. "You are weary, tyenya, and no wonder. Naicë says the weariness will ease when you are less starved, as well. She says the body needs fuel to do what we wish of it, and for healing; if it does not have enough it convinces us we wish to sleep, so that it can use what stores it has for longer." 

Maitimo nodded, words once again stuck. Suddenly, Findekáno's mouth quirked and _he_ glanced away for a moment before he said, "Truth, tyenya, you will likely tire of hearing me say _Naicë says_ long before you have time to find boredom in being awake." 

And words stayed trapped, this time, so Maitimo could only shake his head a little, at the idea he would tire of Káno saying . . . anything. At least, for a very long time. Longer than he could imagine. 

It had not, to his knowledge, happened before. 

This time when the curtains parted it was Artanis, not Irissë, and for a moment Maitimo could not breathe. 

He had not seen Arafinwë's daughter since . . . it was hard to reckon time. Ten, eleven watches before they had sailed, however long ago that was by now. 

The last time he had heard Artanis speak had been to warn that the rising flood was Uinen's grief. Atar had refused to ask Arafinwë or his sons for aid with the ships as they moved along the coast, and indeed had done his best to keep those that travelled hindmost in the then-unbroken host from coming near those ships. Granted, Maitimo had no little doubt whether they would have helped, even asked, even though their refusal might have cost lives, but still - Atar had refused to even ask. 

Artanis had called her warnings, but after, though she had continued with those on shore, Maitimo had not seen nor heard her say a word from then until they had departed, although she was always near where Atar and Nolofinwë spoke - even near the end, when her father had not been. 

Now she wore pale green, with sleeves that bound close to her lower arms and left her hands well free. Her hair was braided first into a crown that circled her head twice and then fell over her shoulder, and she carried a flat-bottomed basket against one hip, leaving her other hand free to close the curtain behind her instead of leaving it open or asking for help, as Irissë had. 

Maitimo could not breathe. 

Káno turned and stood in one movement, and he began to say, "I will - " 

But he got no further, even as he crossed to her, for Artanis held out her free hand to block him and then guide him back a step or two. There was no force to it, she did not _push_ ; she only moved forward, now with her hand on Findekáno's shoulder so that it moved him back and then to one side.

Irissë had always moved like a míroio, the bright little hovering birds that Vána loved, at first seeming still and then taking sudden swoops and darts; but Artanis moved like the swans that gave her mother her epithet, certain that everything else would move out of her way and also certain that if it did not, she could move it herself. 

She was most often right. 

"You will sit down, is what you will do," Artanis said to Findekáno, as she stepped past him. 

"Onórë - " Káno started, as she set the basket down on the low table, and began to take its contents out. 

"Hush, Káno," she said, without looking at him, "sit down, and do not fuss." And when Findekáno did not move, she did look at him, levelly, and said, "Nelyafinwë does not need your protection from me." 

Maitimo felt himself wince, though he did not wish to - there were things Irissë might not notice, but Artanis would. Artanis noticed most things. And she noticed now, so that he nearly felt her attention shift, even as for another moment at least her eyes stayed on Findekáno before she looked at Maitimo. 

He could not meet her gaze, nor truly look at her; his eyes dropped to his own hand, torn nails and thin fingers, skin scabbed here and there. It felt as if he could smell blood, or taste it in his throat, even though he knew he could not. He felt Findekáno sit back down beside him, and at the edges of his sight he also saw as well as felt Artanis sit against this side of the bed. 

"He also does not need to freeze when I enter the same room," she said, now clearly speaking to him, her voice startlingly gentle. "Nor flinch when I say his name." 

Artanis and Irissë had been born in the same year and though there had been tension - as there always had been - Amillë had not yet cared to give it her attention nor let it dictate anything she did or did not do, and so it should have been easy enough to remember the arc from babe-in-arms to full grown for both women. 

And with Irissë it was. It always had been. He had seen nearly all of it. 

Yet even though he had seen nearly all of hers as well, with Artanis it always seemed as if there had been an infant, and then a fierce little child always badly testing her mother's patience - and then you turned around and without warning there was a woman. 

A grown woman, and one always composed, with golden hair and grey eyes that seemed to see far more in you than you meant to show, and yet whose own thoughts remained wholly veiled until she wished to reveal them. And it felt as if she seldom wished to.

A woman who could mostly be found with any Maia, Vala or Valier who would stop long enough to speak with her - but most often the Maia, and most often those that others did not seek out, whose knowledge seemed obscure, and that most Noldor deemed to have little use. 

Maitimo did not know why Artanis had come to Middle-earth. He would not have expected her to. Would have expected her to stand with Amillë and Anairë, or at least to turn back with Arafinwë. Maybe it was because Findaráto and the rest of her brothers would not turn back; maybe it was some other reason. With Artanis one could not know. 

Findekáno sat beside him and Maitimo could feel him, tense and unhappy. 

When Artanis said, "Nelyafinwë," he knew he winced again, though he did not wish to, and it seemed deeply bitter that for all the things that his mind could not even hold for a moment before they scattered he could trace out the parts and shadows and meaning of spiteful jealous naming easily enough and still feel it, painful as it had been since the first time he understood what he had been named. 

And bitter that he had so little strength and self-control, that he could not keep from showing it. 

Artanis could not have missed it, but went on without remark. 

"You have no enemies here," she said, in the same voice as before. "There is nothing you need fear. You are badly hurt, and there are many things that should wait until you have recovered more; indeed most of them I will yet leave until then - but I know what struck you when I entered, and that is too much fear. That will fester, and that you cannot afford. You are not well enough for that. So Káno's dire glare aside, again: I tell you, and promise you, you have no enemies here." 

When Káno interrupted the quiet that followed to say, "I did not glare," with as much dignity as he could, it was a relief: it filled the silence Maitimo could not break, as every strand of thought tangled and knotted as if in a gale and one of them only a bitter dark-stained scream that threaded through the rest and left its traces. 

"No," Artanis replied, mildly, "but the other words that might approach the truth are even more alarming, so I chose understatement." 

The play gave Maitimo a moment to try, to try to drag himself up the snarled mess of his mind and thought to where he might be able to speak, if he could grasp at the least of the things he should say. It meant that they were looking at least for a moment at each other, instead of watching him as he looked down, finger and thumb pressing at the bridge of his own nose, faint pressure on his eyes, as he tried to remember _how to speak_. 

And it was - 

The thought was a shape just out of reach, but it was maybe, if she - 

His head was full of fog and who knew what else and Maitimo did not understand _why_ , and that was only one of so many things he did not understand just now, but if Artanis could play like this with Káno then maybe what she said was true. 

And it was play. He knew that. And the thought crossed his mind that Atar had hated it, hated this kind of play but Maitimo pushed it away, he did not _want_ that now, he did not need it. And maybe in that push something came loose and so did words. 

Some words. 

"It . . .is not you," he said, and it was only half a truth, and that did not matter, and if this was not of all the things he should say the most important, it was the one that would come now. The one he _could_ speak aloud. 

He could not say, _it is not you_ and then tell the rest of the other - that it was not her in her _self_ , he did not . . . fear her, it was him, it was himself, it was . . . everything, and anything he had done or not done, and the weight of it, and even as the thoughts came Maitimo knew they made no sense, they were a tangled mess even in his own mind, so he could not . . . speak of that. 

Could only touch the other. 

It was only half a truth but that much was true and Maitimo held onto that truth, for he would rather admit this one than stay mute. 

He could not look at Artanis, not direct, but he could make himself drop his hand, open his eyes at least, and he could say, carefully, each word careful, "I . . .hate that name. I have . . . for a long time, now." 

And there was more that he should have said, about why; and more that could be said, maybe, about knowing you had been given a name whose only purpose was to deny someone else's place, to mark a line and a border and try to cut out of the world something that had already happened, but he . . . could not. The words stuck in his throat. 

Even these were difficult. Answers were owed, and they were the only answers that came, but in truth he would have kept that to himself. And even in his own ears what he said sounded thin and jarring and . . .

He could not think of what it was. But it was not good. 

It was simply better than being silent. 

In the quiet after the words Maitimo managed, for a brief moment, to actually glance at Artanis' face. Long enough to see the tilt of her head, and the thoughtful look, and to make him wonder how much she saw whether he said it or no. 

That, too, was an unhappy thought. There was not much of him anyone should have to see or would ever wish to, now. 

When she said, "Irissë said you seemed . . .unsettled, when she used _Maitimo_ this morning," it was a laugh and a curse that stuck in his throat this time, and the laughter was bitter, too - he had not . . . thought of that. 

He had not thought of any of it. 

And - so much for Irissë not seeing. 

Maitimo stared at his hand and his wrist and the stitches in his skin and if he could not look at her or even look up he could say, "And the other is no better," and leave unspoken that it too came from Atar, and to push away the memory that tried to catch him - 

\- of home, of Tirion and Atar and being called, _á tula Russandolnya_ \- 

\- and then of choking and blood in his mouth, of a voice in his ear, _such obedience, Russ_ \- 

Something brushed his forearm and Maitimo startled, a little; then felt Káno's hand slid down to take his. Here, on the bed, and with only the smell of woodsmoke, charcoal, and only the taste of sleep. 

"That poses a problem," Artanis said after a moment's silence, and then she said, "onóro, then, for now." 

And that startled him, more than the touch, enough that it startled an incredulous laugh, and it hurt; shaking his head, Maitimo said, "I have no right to that from you." 

These words were not difficult. They fell out, or so it felt. And they were true. 

"That is not how these things go, you know," Artanis replied, gentle but also inexorable. Maitimo looked at her, startled again, though unable to meet her eyes for more than a heartbeat.

In the same tone - calm, and gentle, matter-of-fact and yet in some way relentless - Artanis said, "My grandfather had _three_ sons, and so my father had two brothers, and so I have . . . an excess of cousins," and Maitimo thought he heard Findekáno strangle a laugh, of the kind that comes already more than half-strangled. 

She finished, "And you are one of them. There is nothing you or I - or anyone else - can do to change that." 

Maitimo swallowed, and made himself speak, to begin, "What we have d - " but Káno tried to interrupt. 

" _You_ did n - " 

"I did nothing to stop him," Maitimo said, and the words hurt but at least he could speak them, "and - I did not stand aside at the Havens, Kányo." 

"Neither did I," Findekáno countered. "Nor my brother." As if it was their fault, as if they even _could_ have known - 

With the voice of one used to bringing arguments up short, Artanis said, "And the passage over Helcaraxë was terrible," jarring through anything Maitimo might have replied or Findekáno might have countered, and for a moment Maitimo felt near to afraid that Káno would . . . do something, he did not know what, but he could _feel_ the sudden coiled anger and the fear of it made him look up. 

To see Artanis' gaze still on him, one hand raised a little to forestall whatever Káno might say, or do, and no anger in her face. 

Or bitterness, or recrimination, or . . .anything. 

Only sadness, and a kind of complicated hidden laughter that was itself a part of that grief, as she said, "And yet? I would not trade places with any one of your brothers for the world and all the stars right now, let alone with you. I would walk back across that hell first."

Maitimo's mind felt like a jar upended, where everything races towards the mouth and then crashes into everything else, sticking there, nothing coming out. Beside him he felt Káno subside, lose the feeling of someone about to launch themselves at another, as a bird of prey lowers its wings from a mantle. 

And very briefly Artanis glanced at Káno with a sense of fond exasperation, before looking steadily at Maitimo again. 

"I am also well-able to understand," she went on, voice quieter, "that not one of you, any more than any one of us, simply woke up one day and chose to do . . . any of what has come before now. I am not deceived or confused about any of what has happened, onóro." 

Maitimo could not answer her, but he did not . . . think she expected it. Thought that she was giving space for an answer, if he might find one, but only that. And he could not find an answer. He could not think of one, let alone force his throat to let him speak it. 

When he stayed silent, Artanis said, "The same will brought every one of us here, in one way or another, and none of us can undo that. So here we are. And you are still my cousin, and you are not my enemy, and you are safe here."

Maitimo knew he should have had an answer of some kind, something - acknowledgement, gratitude at the bare least, something other than silence and lowered eyes, but he still could not speak. Nor could he make himself look up. 

And Artanis did not wait. 

She leaned forward and for a heartbeat touched Maitimo's hand where Káno held it, but she said, "And now I will make Káno happy, and go, and leave you in peace for a while. He does not need my instructions on the rest of this by now." 

Then she rose and left, taking the empty basket with her. And again the murmur of low conversation on the other side of the curtain resumed, all women's voices.

Beside him, Maitimo heard and felt Findekáno take a slow, full breath before saying, quietly, "The trouble with Nerwen is that whatever it is she has done that has made you wish to throttle her, it has a very good chance of being something you should probably be grateful for instead, and I truly do not know how her brothers are _never_ infuriated by her." 

The laughter was not really laughter. Maitimo could feel the hysterical edge _himself_ , feel the strand of the struggling remnants of his working mind that scrabbled to keep everything falling on that side of the knife's-edge instead of the other because the other, the other . . . 

There was a long way down on the other side and that same remnant of thought knew he should not let himself fall there, could not eat or do any of the things he was _supposed_ to do, that Káno wanted him to do from there, and so pulled to the side of laughter as better than collapse. 

At least until the pain in ribs stabbed at him and his breath caught, his left hand going to his side. 

His own ribs felt strange under his hand and Maitimo realized this was the first time he had touched any part of his own body and . . . paid mind to it . . . for a long time. The bones were prominent and jagged under his fingers and that as much as the pain startled him out of the broken-edged laughter. 

In the moment it almost felt as if his body was not his own. 

"Ai," Findekáno said, "ávatyar'nin, Maitinya, I should have thought." 

The words startled Maitimo, and once again he had to scramble to find their meaning, and then all in one second it seemed . . . very long ago that the stab of pain had distracted him, let alone that he had known why he was laughing, and Maitimo shook his head. 

"It is nothing," he said. And he wondered what he was speaking of. 

*******

What Nerwen had said seemed to hang in the air, as if something about the moment was not finished - but at the same time, it seemed to Findekáno that if he could get Maitimo to eat, first, before following that thought, and certainly before Naicë came looking to examine his shoulder, it would be better. 

Findekáno suspected that the nestandë being the one to tell him he needed to eat would not be good for Maitimo, right now. And so he waited, even, on asking the question he found _he_ needed to ask, until Maitimo had finished both broths and also seemed to have eaten as much of the mixture of rice and stewed fruit as he wished to. 

That mixture was admittedly nothing that Findekáno would have _chosen_ to eat given much in the way of other choices, but he surreptitiously tasted some of it and it was not bad - it was hulled rice cooked to the point of disintegrating in some kind of milk, honey, and then topped with the fruits from the trees that grew along the one side of the lake, whose name was to be something as soon as the kemenduri stopped arguing about it and chose one, cooked until they were a soft mush. 

If one were trying to teach your body how to eat food again Findekáno supposed one could do much worse. 

When Maitimo stopped eating Findekáno took the bowl and set it aside, and then hesitated. He was unsure how to ask, how to make the question safe - but he needed to know, and so after a moment he braced himself and said, "Tyenya - what Artanis said about Irissë noticing . . . should - " 

But then he stopped, because Maitimo had at once reached out to catch his hand, and was now shaking his head - and then seemed caught between frustration and fear. His grip, though still weak, tightened and he looked down, as if struggling with something - Findekáno guessed it was speech again being difficult, and ran his free hand gently down Maitimo's forearm. 

"It is all well, tyenya," he said, quietly, "don't - do not push yourself. I just wanted to make sure." 

Maitimo's jaw tightened, and his eyes closed; he took what seemed to be two very careful breaths and though he opened his eyes he kept his gaze on the blanket as he said, haltingly, "Please - you do not . . . " he stopped, took another careful breath and said, "please do not . . . worry . . . about it?" 

As if he was unsure if that was right to say. 

Findekáno kissed the side of his hand and said, "Then I will not," and Maitimo seemed more relieved than he could account for. "I just - " And now it was his turn to stop, to look away, and to rephrase. "Melindyo, if something I am doing, or saying, anything, is causing you hurt or dismay, please tell me. I would so much rather know, and change it. So - please." 

The words felt strange to _say_ , and yet Findekáno could not rid himself of the feeling they needed to be said - that he could not take for granted that Maitimo would, if not. His thoughts lingered on Maitimo pushing himself to sit in spite of obvious pain, because Findekáno had asked him to, and other moments like it. 

It stirred the unease deep in the pit of his stomach again. And that was why he had to ask. To say what he had. 

Maitimo looked at him, and then seemed as if he had to look away, but he nodded and his hand on Findekáno's tightened again, briefly. 

"Thank you," Findekáno said, and he would have gone on, but he could hear the hiss of cloth against cloth and turned to see Naicë enter. 

If Naicë thought anything was amiss, or had any opinion of what Nerwen had done or said, it did not show; if anything Findekáno thought she seemed more like . . . well, Naicë, more like Naicë always was, than she had since that first night: less disconcertingly grave or grieved, and more as if she took the ills and injuries of those she tended as a sign that Arda had been arranged to test her patience. 

_Her_ patience, personally, and specifically. And she was with great forbearance not subjecting anyone else to her frustration. 

Mostly. 

Although even there, Findekáno thought she seemed less so than he had often seen her. 

Before she moved the shoulder-brace she looked briefly at those sutures easy to see, including the handful at Maitimo's severed wrist, and her frown seemed more surprised than unhappy. 

"These will likely be ready to be removed by the evening tomorrow," she said. "And if all the others are the same I may be able to remove all of them at the same time, and then it will simply be a matter of time - though you _must_ tell me if any of them begin to hurt, or to feel hot and swollen, or if you show any signs of fever. But if that does not occur . . ." she shook her head. "Then you will merely be waiting to see how much the marks will fade, and how fast." 

When it came to Maitimo's shoulder, there was less of that sense of mild surprise, but despite watching her carefully Findekáno could see no signs of concern - only the look of someone finding things more or less exactly as she expected. 

"This will still take much longer before there is anything to be done but let it heal in its own time, and prevent it from causing pain," she said, her hands resting one on the top of Maitimo's shoulder and the other at the very top of his arm, as Maitimo cradled his forearm in his other hand. "The good news is that although the ligaments were torn they were not dead, and they are willing to heal and knit themselves together again; the bad is that sinew is the second slowest tissue in the body to heal, and the most likely to be imperfect in its healing."

Findekáno found himself wondering what the slowest substance was, but refrained from asking. 

The bruising over Maitimo's shoulder, back and side was still deep purple-blue and nearly black in places, but while livid and painful still, it no longer had the look of something just inflicted, as if it could get worse at any moment, and for the most part the unbruised skin was no longer red and angry. 

Naicë asked if the brace as it was caused any discomfort, and Maitimo shook his head; the look she gave him seemed measuring, but she nodded. 

"If it begins to, tell me; there are ways it can be adjusted. For now it remains the best way to keep everything in alignment, and to keep from causing strain to the ligaments as they repair themselves. If you put it off for brief periods, it is best to use the cloth sling, or some other kind of support." 

Findekáno was not entirely sure how much of this, or of anything else Naicë said, Maitimo truly took in - that in time, after he had recovered more and had grown stronger, there would be things he would need to do to help that arm in particular regain strength and endurance, but for now it should be left to rest - but he himself listened and committed it to memory, and there would be time to repeat it. 

Naicë seemed aware of that: she had _him_ make the cloth sling, as if checking to make sure he was doing it correctly, and then, with some few final questions about whether or not the hulled rice had as yet caused any upset or discomfort, she repeated that Maitimo should bathe, and then could rest when he wished. 

She left more leaves of the same plant as before for Findekáno to put in the water, as well as the usual salt and herbs, and then she went. 

Maitimo seemed pale, again; with his maimed arm in the cloth sling he leaned on his left arm and his gaze seemed to look through the bed and bedding, into who-knew-where. Findekáno felt that it might be helpful, just possibly, if Maitimo could have some waking time wherein something new and overwhelming was not dropped on his head. 

Then he had to suppress a sigh, because an inner voice asked if he thought Maitimo might not find some such thing himself, if no one else provided it, and Findekáno did not like that thought but he was not sure he could say it was wrong. 

For now he put it aside and said, "Come on, Maitinya. The water will be warm now." 

Movement did seem less painful and less like every single motion was an effort almost beyond Maitimo's strength. He was still unsteady enough to need help both standing and walking, and the little way between bed and alcove left him winded and seeming drained, but he said the pain was no worse. 

Findekáno hoped that he did not deceive himself in thinking that Maitimo cringed less from his own skin as Findekáno helped him undress. That even the pattern of just two nights might have brought that much comfort, certainty of place and safety. 

And the warm water seemed to help, although the warmth seemed also to bring forward the marks that Findekáno thought came from burns, as if the skin remembered heat. But Maitimo did not seem to notice, and they did not seem to hurt - just to grow more livid in colour again. 

In fact far from hurting, the water seemed to be a relief, and the leaves that Naicë had given him made the air seem cleaner, even of just the faint smoke of stove and braziers in a small space. They did not give the air a scent - not exactly, not in the way that some of the other herbs added to the water did, or the way that those added to the soap did. 

Instead, the steam from the water after the leaves were added . . . seemed to remind one of other scents, so that one remembered maybe the smell of nessamelda after rain and the pleasure of the memory, without anything smelling exactly like it. It was an odd thing, and Findekáno was unsure how it could come to be. It seemed to him a strange thing for a plant to do.

Findekáno found himself watching how Maitimo ended up sitting in the smooth wooden tub, and wondered if that, too, were part of the easing: that the slanting wood sides gave almost as much support to his shoulder and side as lying flat would do, but without the weight pulling downwards - and without having to lie on his back. 

It was a thought, and Findekáno marked it, wondering if there might be some way to reproduce the effect elsewhere. 

He brought the stool over so that he could sit beside the tub. As with the night before, and the one before that, Maitimo's eyes had closed almost the moment that he had settled into the water, his head resting on the edge of the tub. But after a moment, his eyes blinked open again; this time he did not need to hold his maimed arm to ease the strain on his shoulder, the cloth sling being safe to wear in the water, and he picked up one of the pieces of leaf that floated with the rest. 

"Do you know what it is?" Maitimo asked. His voice was still quiet and carried a rasp around the edges, but it seemed less ragged and broken to Findekáno now, and he hoped it was healing. But as to the question, he had to shake his head. 

"I know that it grows here," Findekáno replied, "and I think Naicë had not seen it before, and was surprised at that. I do not think she has named it yet - she keeps calling it _my helpful little weed_. She seems almost annoyed by it, to tell the truth, or at least . . . " he thought for a moment and settled on, "it is almost as if she thinks it _should_ be untrustworthy or show some kind of danger, and yet it refuses to. I asked her, and she told me that she cannot seem to rely on how much help it will give, but at the least casting it in hot water makes the air wholesome, and drinking that water is more refreshing than water alone - but sometimes it seems to speed healing a very great deal, or revive spirits badly thrown down, and she is not sure what makes the difference." 

Maitimo let the leaf settle on the surface of the water again and said, "It . . . feels like the scent should remind me of something. Except I cannot remember it." 

"It may come," Findekáno told him. "The plant is very unassuming - just the leaves, and some small flowers, briefly." 

For a moment or two, Maitimo looked at the floating leaf with such a familiar thoughtful cast to his face that Findekáno's chest briefly ached at it, before Maitimo's eyes fluttered closed again for a while. 

Findekáno checked the temperature of the water with his hand, absently making note of when he would expect it to start cooling more than was comfortable. He did not immediately feel the need to fill the silence, at least not for the moment. 

He could see why Naicë thought that the sutures might be able to come out tomorrow evening, and he felt he should remind himself to ask Irissë just how much sooner than expected that might be. Healing was a strange thing, and Findekáno remembered that from the crossing: it somehow managed to take much longer than you expected, but also to happen much more quickly, and you could never tell which. Sometimes it seemed to be both. 

But where there had before been deep rents in Maitimo's skin and even after tending there had been livid red gashes, skin clearly held together by the thread, there were now dark brown-red and purple lines, stark but fading. Nerwen had explained to Findekáno that skin grew in layer on layer, each so much thinner than tissue but together layered and strong, but also that skin would seek to close itself, to repair or remake a top layer as quickly as possible to keep the rest of the world out, before setting to work on the rest. 

Like roofing a building before you built all the levels and floors within, so that the roof would keep out the rain. 

Findekáno thought he could see that, in the blurriness where the sutures held. There was still healing to be done below, maybe, but there had been layers of skin healed over the top, and they would hold. 

At first there had been all the places where it seemed older wounds had closed, but Findekáno had been unable to call them _healed_ \- he could still see where some of them were, but now they did look the way that healing or near-healed injuries he had seen before looked, where you could still tell they were there, but you knew they were closed and that if they would leave a scar, it would be small. 

The skin at the corners of Maitimo's eyes and his mouth was healing, too - still reddened, but no longer cracking. Though he was still painfully thin and frail, Findekáno felt it no longer seemed as if the points of his knees and hips and shoulders and even his unmaimed wrist were in danger of tearing through skin shrunken far too tight. 

Other than the mess of Maitimo's shoulder, most of the other bruises were starting to fade, hearts still dark but the edges shifting to yellow. The lines that Findekáno thought were burns were turning dull. 

It struck Findekáno, not for the first time, that the skin around Maitimo's wrist was darker, and at other times he had noticed the same at his ankles. Not exactly a scar, or at least not a kind Findekáno had ever seen before: more like the way a strap or rope might darken a wooden beam where it wrapped around it. And, Findekáno grimly suspected, for similar reasons. 

He wondered if that would fade. Now that other things were less vivid, he could see too where there were maybe old burns, or old injuries that left marks the same way. Dull and edges blurred, so that you could tell where the mark was, and where it was not, but it was hard to find the exact point that it started edging from one to the other. 

Dragging his gaze from one such at just the point where the space between a finger and a thumb would sit against the side of Maitimo's throat, Findekáno found himself looking at the floating leaf again, and it struck him to wonder if - give what Naicë had said about lifting spirits - it might account a little for Maitimo's willingness, both last night and now, to simply rest in the warm water, without seeming anxious about what might be in the silence as he seemed elsewhere. 

If so, Findekáno wondered if you could distill whatever quality of its fragrance did that into an essence and then drench things in it. He should ask Irissë: if she did not know, she would know which one of those who played with fragrance and the oils of plants might. 

He was aware, distantly, that given all the things he kept thinking he should find out about, or ask about, he was almost certainly forgetting some of them, misplacing the memory only to remember later when once again it was not convenient or sometimes possible to follow the thought. 

It was a familiar enough pattern. 

Distantly, he heard someone start the opening of a duet Irissë had always called "The Shouting Birds", although as far as Findekáno knew that was not what its maker called it. It was supposedly written after said maker had spent over an hour watching a robin scold a raven, who had not seemed to care much, and a jay, who had. 

The singer taking the robin's part had just begun his scold when Maitimo's eyes half-opened and a shadow of concern touched his face. "You do not need to sit there," he said, voice sounding as if his throat had not expected him to speak. "To stay here." 

Findekáno found himself catching the edge of the first thoughtless answer that came to mind, and almost as if interrupting himself asked, " - does it bother you that I am?" as the shape of _that_ thought danced its anxious path into the forefront of his mind. 

The way Maitimo shook his head, the surety of it, soothed that thought. But Maitimo looked down, after, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully - or maybe it was just that he had to find ones that would let him speak at all. 

Eventually he said, "It seems like it would be uncomfortable," with the words strung along like the beads of a child's first try at a necklace strung along their wire. Findekáno canted his head. 

"Not enough to matter," he said. And then, because Maitimo did not look up, he asked, "Tyenya - what?" 

"You should not have to sit here at all - " Maitimo began, but although Findekáno was quick enough to throttle the half-snorting-laugh of disbelief before it emerged, it was at the price of needing to speak over it himself, and he interrupted. 

"I would fight Naicë if she tried to make me leave," he said, firmly, and he meant it - however well she thought she could manage people. "Tyenya, it is not a matter of _having_ to when I do not wish to - the farthest thing from that." 

In the silence after, someone else began the jay's reply and Findekáno tried to ignore how jarring it seemed. After a moment, he reached over to catch Maitimo's hand, just under the water, and draw it to rest in his on the edge of the tub. 

He waited, while Maitimo stared through the water surface, jaw tightening now and again, as - Findekáno guessed - he struggled with speech. It made it easier to wait, at least, that Findekáno genuinely did not yet know what he might be trying to say.

"I . . . know," Maitimo said at last, haltingly, "that you are . . . real. I do. I can . . .see it, I can look at you and I see you and I know and yet there is part of me still . . . waiting," and there he had to stop, and take a breath, "I am still waiting for this, for . . . all of it to be some game, or trap, because . . .it makes no sense, I do not know - I cannot see why - "

Another breath, this one seeming pained, " - why you would come for me, when I - " and Maitimo stopped as if cutting himself short, before saying, "I do not know why you would want to to afflict yourself with the burden of . . . me, of feeding me, dressing me - " 

And he had meant to let Maitimo speak, whatever it was he would say, but Findekáno could not, could not keep silent and let this continue, _could not_ ; he leaned forward, reaching out his free hand to touch the side of Maitimo's face and stop him, said, "Tyena - Maitinya please, _stop_. Please." 

Maitimo did, lips pressing together, and part of Findekáno regretted it, regretted the need to stop him, to tell him - yet all the same, Findekáno both could not stand to hear the words said at all, let alone how they had become more frantic and their edge more vicious, that edged turned towards Maitimo himself. 

Findekáno did not think it wise to let that build, either. 

He brushed his hand over Maitimo's hair and down to rest against the curve of his neck and tried to think - think of what to say next, what to do, where to go with the moment. 

Eventually, Findekáno said, "Maitinya - I swear to you there is no trick, and I swear to you there is no place in Eä I would choose to be except right here. And if I could wish one thing of you it would be that you believe me, and believe that will not change, and that everything that I might need to forgive I have forgiven and count nothing for it. And that while you are still so weary and hurt you would let this guilt be. _Please_ , tyenya - that is all I wish." 

Maitimo had looked down again, eyes closed, and at the end Findekáno saw the tracks of tears, and the ripples where they hit the water - but Maitimo nodded, in the end, and when he let go of Findekáno's hand it was to catch the wrist of the hand still resting against the skin of his neck as he turned his face to it and kissed Findekáno's palm. 

Findekáno moved so that he could lean over and kiss Maitimo's brow, and said, "I am here because I love you, and I have grieved every hour I could not be near and _now I can_ , tyenya, and all that grieves me now is that you are wounded and worn and afraid - that you are, and somehow all that has happened to you, all that _they_ \- " and he refused to speak even epithets now, wrapped the pronoun around the shape of a curse, " - have done has made you think I would ever not love you, ever wish to be apart from you. That if you needed me I could ever wish to be elsewhere, that you would ever, _ever_ not be worth far more than my time and care. Only that." 

He had not meant to say so much, and truthfully he bit his tongue on saying more, though he had more to say. Findekáno kissed Maitimo's temple and rested his forehead there for a moment, as Maitimo kept tight hold of his hand, and seemed to struggle to keep his breathing even, or anything like. He knew better; it took very little thought to know that much of this was no kinder to lay on someone so wounded to carry than was the misplaced guilt.

Instead he made himself soften his voice and say, "Ai, tyenya, all of this can wait until you are well. Can, and should. There is time enough. All that matters right now is that you are safe, and you are home - it is all still new, but it is home, now. And you are welcome, and I _do not wish_ to be elsewhere. I wish to be here, where you are, and nowhere else." 

Then he kissed Maitimo's forehead again and said, because he could not quite help it, "And who knows - soon you might be able to spend a whole few hours awake without me, or Nerwen, or Irissë or your own mind dropping some new shock or burden on your head, and get all the way to going to sleep again - " 

And then he stopped because Maitimo's weak laughter had turned into a hiss of pain, and Findekáno winced. "Avatyar'nin," he said, and was contrite. "I keep forgetting." 

"No," Maitimo said, voice quiet and rough, but also tinged with a wry note, "I take it back, I do not care if it hurts." And Findekáno huffed a very small laugh, also wry, because he could actually believe that. He was not happy with it, as such, but he could believe it. 

Maitimo kissed his palm again and then said, voice barely loud enough to hear, "I never wanted to leave you," and Findekáno found himself wishing, just for a second, that Fëanáro were _not_ dead, so that for once - _just once_ \- Findekáno could hit him in the face as hard as he deserved. 

Instead, he shifted enough to catch Maitimo's face and make him look up, so that when he said, "I know," Maitimo would see that he meant it. "Maitinya - I _promise_ you that I know. And it is passed now, and you are here, and so am I. And all that you need to do is rest, and let your mind and body heal. I swear to you." 

After a moment he could feel Maitimo nod, and Findekáno added, "Come, tyenya, I'll help you out before the water goes cold." 

_ii._

Stepping out into the other side of Findekáno's tent had felt more than a little like hitting cold water after unpleasant heat - a relief, but a shock as well, and Nerwen had no sooner thought that than she also longed for that feeling in truth. 

If nothing else she needed to be . . . elsewhere, a dozen feet, even a few dozen feet was not enough distance from the roil of guilt and grief and self-directed loathing that she now could not - 

Not ignore. She had not _ignored_ it before, she had known it was there, but now instead of merely _being there_ Nerwen could feel it beating against her own mind, drawing her attention like a current; it threw her off-balance and she needed to regain her equilibrium. She could not do that here. 

Those on this side would have been able to hear at least some of what passed between herself and her cousins. Nerwen felt more than saw Naicë's slight frown and bit her tongue on the first, unthinking response, and dispassionately knew that the very fact that she had to do so only demonstrated more clearly that she needed to _be somewhere else_. That her own mind was no little frayed. 

But she was able to bite her tongue and master herself. 

Enough that when Naicë said, "That may have been too soon," Nerwen could make herself only shake her head. 

"I know you felt some of that, nestandë," she said, careful, taking shelter behind Naicë's title and pulling all of herself as close and closed as she could - and feeling the moment that Naicë's attention and concern shifted from the nautamo on the other side of the curtain and settled at least briefly and lightly on Nerwen herself.

The weight of that was also too much. 

Nerwen made herself finish, "I . . . saw it. And now I . . . need to go . . . out. I will return later." 

She felt Irissë's concern behind her as well, as she fled. Likely very few others would have seen her movement, her exit as _flight_ , understood that as what she did, but Nerwen knew she fled. And Valinárë blessedly did not follow her, remaining in the tent to remain at the work that Nerwen momentarily abandoned. 

Outside of the tent it was already dark, though there were lamps here and there outside of tents, and the gentle tanwë-lights that marked the main paths, as well as the glow through canvas itself where many had withdrawn within but had not yet laid down to sleep. For a moment, at the edge of the inmost circle where her kin all had their tents, Nerwen hesitated. 

Then she veered away from her own tent and towards the lake. 

It was perhaps not the wisest choice. Perhaps she should go to her own tent and bathe and eat and rest but what she wanted now was the water again. 

What she wanted was not this water, even - she wanted salt-water and for the skin of a moment she felt as much regret at her choice to come here as she ever had yet. But she wanted at least this. 

And if she were honest with herself - and Nerwen strove always to be, for to do otherwise was to lay traps in one's own mind - a very small, very childlike part of her hoped Uinen might still be there. Ingoldo having told her Turukáno's misadventure, a part of Nerwen held out some small, unlikely hope. 

But she did not expect it. Whatever had brought Uinen here, it had not been _them_ ; and to remain, and to reveal herself again, would only risk yet again - 

Nerwen did not expect to find the Lady still in these waters. 

Wanted, yes. She did. She _wanted_ someone greater and wiser than herself, into whose lap she could pour all the new fear and dread and uncertainty that arose and wove themselves into knots every time she gained better understanding of what had been done to her cousin, and how deep it went, and what that could mean. Nerwen _wanted_ reassurance from something she could believe. 

But she did not need it, truly. Without it, she would still continue to do what she meant to do and it would change little except perhaps to make it a little easier. "A little easier" was not reason enough to risk being known to be in Endórë. 

Still. Still she wanted to go to the lake. 

She felt some pity for the sentry who met her at the docks. Who seemed deeply bewildered by her intention and uncertain what to do, and all the more so because Nerwen did not to waste much time trying to explain it. 

He was young, and this time she did not bother to seek out the side dock, nor even to shed her gown or undo her hair. 

Nerwen simply left her shoes on the wood and dove into the water, and knew as she did that Uinen was not there. 

The main dock had permanent lights, more cunning tanwë-lights that brightened as the Sun sank and dimmed when it rose again, but it was still easy enough to get beyond their reach, until there was only the stars and the pale sliver of the Moon, already sinking from the sky. 

It was cold, but she wanted that, wanted the shock of it. The biting chill on her skin ate away a little at the brittle tightness of her thoughts. It had been warm in the tent, for they _kept_ the tent warm for Maitimo's sake, but it had not been that warmth that she had felt, for the clinging, sticky touch of it had not dissipated when she walked out into the night. 

Did break not until the water wrapped sudden, shocking cold around her and shook her mind free of it. It had been the cloying clinging heat of a fever, of touching infected skin and feeling it warm, except in her mind, thoughts, sáma mired in it. 

The lake washed it away, once she was out away from the lights so carefully made with Noldorin skill and instead was only under the stars and the sinking sliver of Moon in the water. 

Nerwen remained in the water until the moment that the discomfort of the cold made the desire to return to shelter and dry warmth louder than anything else in her mind. It took some time. 

She swam back to the docks to find Nornasímo standing, leaning on one of the posts for the lights, wearing the look he got when he was trying not to laugh at someone. Nerwen suspected it was the sentry, a guess that her brother confirmed by calling out, "You know most of the young ones find it a little disconcerting when araneli leap fully clothed into dark lakes after sunset and then do not come back for over a quarter of an hour." 

"Only the first time," Nerwen replied, placidly, swimming the last few feet with her head above water and then pulling herself onto the dock. 

Her brother offered his hand to help her stand up, and she accepted the help. Standing, she began to wring the water out of her now dishevelled braid. Nornasímo seemed tired, but not unexpectedly so - it was merely the air of someone who had risen early and whose day had been full of tasks and work and who had completed them, and now was contemplating well-earned rest. 

It was, to be honest, somewhat reassuring to feel. There was a solidity to her youngest elder brother that was a balm, just now. 

"I will admit," he said, in a measured voice, arms now easily folded and head tilting a little, "that knowing you felt the need to find the water that urgently makes me a little apprehensive about what might be happening over there, nésa." 

Wringing out her skirt now, at least enough to gather it aside so that she could walk without it tangling her legs, Nerwen felt a smile touch her face for a moment: Nornasímo's effort not to pry or even to seem like he might be, while desperately wishing to know and wishing to make it clear that he did wish to know if she wished to tell him . . . that way of his was also reassuring in its own way. 

"You need not be," she said, honestly, starting her way back down the dock and then giving him another half-smile - appreciative - when he bent to take up her shoes so that she would not have to carry them in wet hands and dripping sleeves. "Yes, _I_ needed the respite of the water, and I cannot lie, there is much to cause dismay, but it is nothing that is likely to spiral out and affect everything else for the worst." She sighed. "Quite the opposite, in truth." 

"You sound less happy about that than I might expect," Nornasímo noted, and Nerwen smiled and shook her head. 

"I am weary and grieved for what has already happened, háno, that is all," she told him. "Aikanáro spoke to you about what I told him?" 

It was a safe assumption, after all. It was a family jest that Aikanáro kept half his thoughts in Nornasímo's head, and that was why Nornasímo had so little room for patience, thus needing to spend his so carefully. 

Nornasímo's mouth quirked. "He said he was fairly sure I was not someone he needed to keep it secret from, and he needed to talk. And gesture. And pace." He exhaled, without quite enough weight to make it a sigh, but close, and added, in a far more sober voice, "That could so easily have ended . . . badly." 

"Believe me, I know," Nerwen said, and giving her brother a sideways glance she added, "and do not for a moment pretend that if you had _known_ \- " 

"I would never try," Nornasímo retorted, "if only because I know you would not believe me. But at least I would have known it was a terrible idea. And yes, I also know that you are not sure that is _better_." He attempted to sound aloof, and she laughed at him. 

Nornasímo knowing that sometimes Findekáno's ideas were unwise never seemed to stop him from going along with them; that sometimes they worked out well - indeed, often they did - despite being unwise went some way to understanding why this was so. 

Why the way their cousin opened up possibility in ways that Nornasímo could not always grasp for himself drew him so close to Findekáno in the first place. 

They drew in towards the circles of inhabited tents, away from the lake and away from the embankments that encircled the habitable camp. As they did, Nornasímo lowered his voice to say, "I know you will have reasons for not yet speaking openly of what has occurred, but - " 

"We know," Nerwen told him, seeing what he was concerned about even as he spoke the words, "and Aikanáro should be coming to us tonight so that we can discuss what he may begin to pass on to those who are most anxious." 

Nornasímo looked relieved, and as if he were not bothering to hide that. 

"I have been asked," he admitted, "although less often than I might have expected - but also with more trepidation." 

At Nerwen's questioning look, her brother shrugged. "The curious seem for the most part to be willing to wait for the full news, but I think . . . there is also fear that the news may not be good." He paused then and frowned and said, "Or maybe better said there is hope that it _might_ be good after all, and fear that the hope is foolish. I do not know how to say it, not exactly." 

"I know the feeling you speak of," Nerwen told him. "And that hope may not be so foolish." 

Her brother was quiet for a moment then, as they walked, seeming to regroup his thoughts and questions until he asked, "How is - I mean how are . . . "

Then Nornasímo did sigh at himself and gestured as if to encompass every possible variation on _how do things progress with this_ that he could think of, as he did not know which was appropriate to ask. And Nerwen had no reason to force him to struggle further with it, so she did not.

"Findekáno is several times more weary and grieved than I am," she replied, keeping her voice low enough that it stayed between them as they passed into the parts of the encampment that were still more lighted, still more awake than the outermost, where there were more ears to hear, "but is otherwise bearing up well. Nelyafinwë is . . .alive, and recovering, and for the most part in possession of his senses, and otherwise not well enough that I would choose to inflict his brothers on him even if I hated him." 

Nornasímo, who had less time for any of Fëanáro's younger sons than Nerwen did, choked off a laugh. "That is . . . surprisingly vivid and succinct an illustration," he said, and Nerwen smiled wryly. "And answers my next question neatly. Do you know how long we can delay?" and he meant in sending across the lake. 

"No," Nerwen answered, truthfully. "I think Nelyafinwë may be recovering faster than Naicë expected, but his hurt is far beyond my experience, and Naicë will give no firm answer to how long anything might take. You will have to continue at least a six-day without Findekáno's help, though, I judge." 

Nornasímo snorted. "I would _hope_ so," he replied. "He cannot have recovered from his journey himself yet, whatever he likely thinks. And yes - " her brother added, giving Nerwen a sideways look, though the expression she turned to him was open and innocent, " - I may know of what I speak from being equally foolish about those things, but that does not mean I do not know." 

Nerwen leaned over to kiss her brother's cheek - carefully, without getting him wet - and said, "You have been much more reasonable since the last time," in a mild and solemn voice. 

"I did not enjoy nearly freezing to death," he admitted. "And I enjoyed being taken to task by the nestandë much less. And most of all I did not enjoy our little brother panicking when he found me. So yes, I have attempted to be so." 

"Melin tyë, háno," Nerwen said, fondly, and her brother sighed as if put upon, but gave her her shoes. 

They parted then, he to prepare for the next day, and she to find dry clothes and drag a broad-toothed comb through her hair before returning to Findekáno's tent. Morinén met her at the tent to help her. 

_iii._

It felt dangerous to think it too loudly, but Maitimo felt like he did not have to lean on Findekáno quite as much to walk back across the tent in the lamplight. 

Káno asked him if he wanted to sleep yet, and Maitimo felt maybe he should, should wish to, but hesitated and in the end he shook his head. His shoulder and side ached, but not . . . enough that the sudden dragging drowsiness of the stronger hasama seemed appealing, and he did not want to lie on the bed with his thoughts, although he could not at first think what else there might be to do. 

But Káno drew him over to the long chair again and after settling himself on it - more than half sideways with his back up against the left-hand arm - also drew Maitimo back to lean against him, left arm resting over and across the front of Maitimo's left shoulder. 

The sick heat of shame remained, and the nagging pull of guilt, but truth told it was difficult indeed to argue that this was not what Findekáno wanted when that want seemed to radiate from Káno's skin with the heat of his body. That it was also what Maitimo himself _desperately_ wanted did not make that less so, no matter how much it felt as if it should. 

And the guilt beating against that self-evident fact was a little like rain beating on a closed window: there but not . . . that relevant. Not touching him. 

One might attempt to argue whether or not Findekáno could possibly be comfortable sitting like that but he had always been like this, too: unlikely to use any chair or couch or any kind of seat the way anyone else would expect, unless there was some compelling reason to pretend at decorum. Káno could make himself comfortable nearly anywhere, except maybe sitting up straight in a chair with his feet on the ground. Unless he was at a table eating. 

Knowing this, the familiarity of it, washed across Maitimo's mind like a wave up the shore. Or maybe spilled onto parched soil like water carried to it from who knew how far. The familiarity of all of it, of how Káno never sat properly in chairs to the determined completeness with which he threw himself at anything he decided to do, and - 

Maitimo had spent so much time trying not to think of it. Of any of it, of Findekáno, at all. Memory was only a comfort if nothing painted over memory with the knowledge that reason you _only_ had memory was your own fault, and so memory was not a comfort at all. And at first, in Formenos, that truth had meant Maitimo had wrapped up everything he could and put it away, found things to drown the whisper-song of memory with. 

Then had come the firth, and the fire. And then -

Everything else. 

Now Káno was here, body solid and warm against his back, and if Maitimo did not deserve this Káno did not seem to care. 

Maitimo found himself looking at the fur that covered the chair, and since his thoughts were wayward and wandering anyway, they wandered that direction and he reached out to touch it, and it was easier to ask, "What does it come from?" than any of the words he should have said, so he asked it.

The fur was thick and soft but there was a strange almost-sickness to it. 

"Kelvar that live on the Ice," Findekáno said. "The hunters called them lutpolca but in truth they look on the outside almost as if someone took a huge fat grub, stuck an otter's head on one end, gave it two fins at the sides and two at the back and then covered the whole thing in fur." 

Maitimo did not try to picture it, did not try to make an image of the animal from the description. It had only taken ten years into Tyelko's life for Maitimo to determine that trying to imagine an animal you had never seen from the description someone else could give you could only ever steer you wrong, so Maitimo would wait until he found some drawing, if not until he saw one himself. 

Instead he asked, "On the outside?" 

"The skeleton looks oddly like a dog's, except with a long and curving back and very short hind legs," Káno said. "It is all fat and flesh that fills it out to grub-shape. And the fur. And it is hard to beat the fur for warmth - the big, big bears out on that ice, maybe. They're different than land-bears, too. They're white, and sleek, and they can swim like fish, and they will eat _anything,_ and they fear very, very little." 

His voice turned a little wry. "Usually by the time one was actually killed, the hide was a bit torn up." 

There were still things around the edges of this that tried to work their way in and dig claws into shame but they got caught on the rocks of Káno's voice before, near-pleading for him to _stop_ and besides, Maitimo felt too weary. So he only said, "Usually?" 

"Irissë took one," Findekáno said, with a resigned sort of sigh, and Maitimo this time managed to stop himself from laughing before it hurt. 

Of course she had. 

"And before that she spent eighteen watches following one to learn how to best hunt the lutpolca in their dens in the ice as the bears do, where there is much less chance of them getting away and you only had to learn how to sense them and how to sneak very quietly, instead of having to stand absolutely motionless by their breathing holes for hours," Findekáno continued, still in the same resigned voice. 

" . . . she followed a giant bear that would have been happy to eat her for three arya in the dark," Maitimo said, not because he didn't believe it - not exactly - but just to be sure that he had understood it. 

It was not difficult to believe. Maitimo had found that if he assumed any risk Tyelko would take, Irissë would take, he was seldom led astray. It was only that because there was so little that was difficult to believe, sometimes it was best to be certain that something had truly happened. 

"Turukáno tried to tell her he thought it was a terrible idea," Káno said, as a kind of confirmation. "So she told him he did not have to come with her." 

And that did indeed sound like exactly what Irissë would tell her elder brother. Either of them, in fact, although Káno was less likely to give her a reason. For that matter, it sounded like what Irissë would tell her _father_. Anairë had been able to control her daughter, and Indis had, but no one else could. Artanis could _manage_ her, and Tyelko and Curvo could most often convince her of their wish, but nobody else could control her. Certainly not her brothers.

Turukáno was a great deal like his mother. Perhaps that was why he still wasted his breath trying. 

Maitimo ran his hand over the fur. He had tried so often to imagine Helcaraxë, from the glimpses he had seen at Araman, and from the ships in the distance, and on the far shore. Tried to imagine the ice as it stretched across like a skin over the water, what it would be.

Weaving the best glimpses he had always left him with no way to imagine how anyone could survive it, and so ended in dark places. He had not imagined things could live there. That there would be anything to hunt, for food or gear. For there could be nothing that could _grow_ \- 

"What do they eat?" he asked, and then said, "These, not the bears," tapping the fur. "I know you said the bears hunt these." 

"Fish," Findekáno said, seriously. "There are vast, vast schools of fish under that ice, tyenya. I have never seen so many. The cold does not trouble them. And giant things that are not fish - they breathe air, but from the tops of their heads, like in Haru's stories. None of the ones we saw were as big as he said - some were only around twice as long as I am tall, and three times as wide, and some are much bigger than this tent, but nothing as big as ships, like he would tell us. But given that it is still the narrowest point between Valinórë and Endórë, I . . . would not be surprised if Ulmo has greater giants, out in the deeps." 

He seemed to pause in thought for a moment and then added, frankly, "In truth by now I would not be much surprised by anything Ulmo has out in his depths. The smallest of those leviathans I saw, the ones only three times as wide as me, they hunted in packs, and used the water as their nets to drag their prey off floating ice. They were beautiful, and terrifying, and I think they sang to each other - I think there was meaning in their songs, though I never caught it." 

Káno's voice was soothing. Maitimo listened to him speak about the stars on the snow, and the fish under the ice, and the small white foxes that followed the ice-bears like walking puffs of fur, stealing bits of the bears' kills and hiding them under the ice for later. 

Maitimo knew he was in some danger of falling asleep here, as he had before, but could not bring himself to want to do anything about it; as Káno began the story of Irissë's hunt, he also began idly carding his fingers through Maitimo's hair and running his fingertips over the ring of Maitimo's temple and down along his jaw. 

Maitimo began to lose hold of what Findekáno was saying, but clung to the line of his voice. Part of him still waited for the trap, for the blow to fall, but he pushed it down with the thought that even if it did, he could do nothing about it, so he might as well take now for all it was. 

He managed to only half-startle when Káno's voice changed from the rhythm of storytelling to the gentle, insistent pattern of trying to wake someone - him, trying to wake him, Findekáno's voice saying, "Maitinya - melindyo. I think we need to put you to bed before you fall entirely asleep." 

With some effort, thoughts came back to him, and Maitimo knew he was right, though moving seemed like the last thing he would want. And one thought came to the fore and he said, "You will stay?" 

"I will fight anyone who tries to make me leave," Findekáno replied, immediately, and that . . . was good. 

At least, that was what Maitimo wanted. A darker thought told him he should not be so quick to call that _good_ , but he was too weary to follow it, and instead only carefully sat up enough for Káno to slide over the arm of the long chair so that he could help Maitimo stand. 

This time crossing the little space did wind him, and Maitimo felt his jaw tighten in the frustration. Findekáno must have seen it, because he said, with the kind of lightness that just meant he did not want to be overbearing but not that he was not serious, "Careful, tyenya, you will crack your own teeth." 

Maitimo shook his head, as Káno helped him to sit down on the bed and stood in front of him. For a moment Maitimo felt a little dizzy as well. "I do not think I am strong enough to do that, right now," he said, and knew he did not manage to keep as much bitterness out of his voice as he wanted to. 

Findekáno caught Maitimo's face in both hands and made him look up. It was . . . difficult to let him. 

It was not that there was anything in Káno's face Maitimo did not wish to see - in fact it was very much the opposite. There was _everything_ he wished to see, everything he _desperately_ wanted, and did not deserve, and that Findekáno would give him anyway.

So he could only look up for a moment, before his eyes dropped again.

"Four days, Maitimo," Káno said, quietly but firmly, not angry or impatient, only . . . steady. "Only four days since I still truly feared that after everything I would still have to watch you die, and four days since I would have found you dead, if our Enemy did not hate you so much. Only four - and barely four, tyenya, not even four, this _is_ the fourth night." 

He bent to kiss Maitimo's forehead and, briefly, his mouth, and added, gravely, "In all fairness melindyo you must wait _at least_ a full six-day before expecting the impossible of yourself. I think I insist." 

Maitimo managed to press his hand against his hurt side in time, so that the laughter he couldn't help hurt less. He leaned his forehead against Findekáno's ribs, and Káno held him for a moment, one hand cradling the back of his head and the other resting on his unhurt shoulder. 

It still seemed as if this could not truly be real, _should_ not be - that to expect and believe that it was so and would stay so, that to believe this was not a delusion he made up to comfort himself . . . 

He could not finish the thought, could not . . . put words around what it _was_ , other than he should not. That to do so was dangerous, and wrong, and yet, and yet . . . . 

Findekáno's hand smoothed over his shoulder and upper back, and Káno said, "Rest, melindyo. You need rest, and there is no fault in that. I am here; I will keep watch, and I will be here. You need only to rest." 

Maitimo nodded, because he could not speak, and took the cup that would make him sleep. 

_iv._

Irissë felt an unease when Nerwen left, as she always did when Nerwen was clearly distraught - or at least, as clearly as Nerwen was ever distraught, which was less clear than most. And that itself was why. If her cousin was so upset as to let it be seen, then she was greatly upset indeed, though she was also terrible at taking comfort. 

Irissë thought maybe she saw a flicker of the same unease in Naicë's face, but that might simply have been an echo of her own, so that she saw what was not there. She did see that for a moment Valinárë seemed unsure of whether to follow her aranel or to stay where she was; then Nerwen's arandurë turned her attention back to what she had been doing before. 

None of them said anything about it. Naicë rose and crossed to the other side of the tent in order to examine Maitimo's sutures and shoulder; Irissë took up one of the wax tablets to make a list of the things that would be needful here over the coming days, to be certain all was well prepared for. 

She also sighed, as she always did, in mild irritation. If you had asked her, before she left Tirion, what she would miss the most, she would not have thought to mention _abundant supplies of paper_ and yet. The wax tablets worked well enough, and they were easy to reuse for things such as this kind of list, but they were irritating to write on and they turned her letters thin, sharp and ugly no matter what care she took.

That bothered Nerwen enough that she simply hoarded every scrap of paper she could, but Irissë found having to do that almost as irritating as using the wax. 

She would have to talk to Nerwen about both of them cornering Atar and pushing him into deciding about permanent settlement - if it should be here, or if they should yet move - so that they could sow flax. Among other things, of course, but linen was becoming a pressing need and the wild flax was no adequate substitute. They would have to sow. 

Irissë made note of cloths and towels, of bedding and supplies from the Asiëmar, and then copied down the list of supplies that Valinárë had compiled for making the little adjacent sheltered space, as they might as well all be recorded and requested in the same place. 

When Naicë emerged again, it was to go to the bag full of the little tied bundles of the plant she had not yet named, pull one out, and frown at it. Irissë hid a smile. 

The little plant grew wild all over the plains here, and even the over green-land between the mountains, all the way up to the shadows of Angamando. It had wide dark green leaves, little, unremarkable white flowers, and a wholesome smell when bruised or cast into steaming water. 

And it frustrated Naicë greatly, for it was in none of her books, and it seemed to behave differently between each use, for no reason she could determine - and yet also determined to have only helpful effects, even if they were very small. 

That was not the way of these things. The substances in plants and flowers and roots that were used in healing were like any other tool, Naicë insisted: they merely acted on the body, having one effect or the other, this one speeding the heart and that one calming it, this one bringing more wakefulness and that one less. It was the use and the dose and the will of the healer and the healed that determined whether it was help or poison. 

The little plant defied this: it would only help, it seemed, but without any sign of why, and never the same amount. Its help might be to clear the air, or it might be to speed healing beyond what could be expected, and you would not know until you used it. Or so it seemed. 

" . . .is it helping?" Irissë asked, innocently, and Naicë gave her a suppressive look. But then she sighed. 

"Yes," she said, wearily. "I should be able to remove most of the sutures tomorrow, if not all of them, and that will leave only the shoulder that needs further attention, bar the truly poor luck of an infection." 

She looked thoughtful and then gestured to Irissë's list. "It is also quite likely that tomorrow his body will recall what hunger feels like and what it means." 

Irissë nodded, and added that to the part of the list that meant requisitions from food stores. 

They had not had anyone as badly starved as Maitimo had been, even crossing the Ice, but from those that they had cared for they knew that when hunger returned it returned in force, and the more their nautamo ate the more quickly they recovered. 

When Irissë had finished, Valinárë took the tablet and ducked out into the night, to make the orders. Naicë had begun to write at length on one of her own books. 

Nerwen returned some time later, in new clothes and with her hair wet and braided far more simply than was her wont and the braid then looped loosely over her shoulder. She had also regained a measure of her usual calm, so that Irissë suspected her cousin gone and made some poor sentry on the lake very anxious by leaping off a dock to swim out into the lake in the dark, ignoring all protests. 

She said nothing. 

"We need to work out what we intend my brother to tell Káno's satari," was what Nerwen said, as she put more water on for yullas. Irissë sighed. 

"And then we will need to tell Atar that some amount of the tale will spread, just a little," she said, by way of agreement. "Though hopefully not too much, or too far." 

"I am not greatly worried on that score," Nerwen said. The sachet she emptied into the yullas-pot must have come from her own stores; Irissë knew her cousin had hoarded a great many different blends and varieties closely since leaving Valinor, and what wafted from the emptied sachet was vardarianna and mallinornë. 

That spoke to needing a certain amount of comfort, very loudly. 

Nerwen went on, "Even beyond his satari themselves, all of the archers and most of the scouts would cut off their right foot for your brother without question, and most of the others would only need a little encouragement. So although I am sure they will talk among themselves, I do not fear it getting far from them." 

It was Naicë's voice that startled them both a little, enough to make them look to her where she continued to write in her book, as she said, "You should concern yourself more with how they will understand what he did." 

Her voice was dry, and droll, and deeply, deeply amused. Irissë blinked, and then covered her face with both her hands, as Naicë went on, "Their captain did just single-handedly steal the Enemy's prize captive from him." 

Irissë stared at her, and felt some comfort in noting that Nerwen _also_ stared at her, and also that a very faint smile, or even the _feeling_ of a smile without its presence, played on Naicë's face. 

Sometimes one had no choice but to let the Cuiviéniel be amused at one's expense. 

"On his own," Naicë continued, mildly. "He successfully crossed territory infested with enemies and took himself to our Enemy's very gate undetected, before recovering Nelyafinwë and returning here." 

"He only got back alive because of Thorondor!" Irissë protested, weakly, trying to keep her voice down - though she doubted her brother was listening. 

Nerwen had gone still, her hands palm-to-palm and fingers pressed against her lips, her face upturned and eyes closed. She took a deep breath and then shook her head. 

"No," she said, in resignation. "No, Isa, that will not matter. If anything at all, it will be proof of his valour and virtue, that such aid would come to him and his prayer would be answered - given I have no doubt he did pray, in that moment." 

"People have been given an epessë for far, far less," Naicë said, blandly, still not looking up from her writing. 

Irissë stared and then put her face in her hands. "If they begin calling him Astaldion," she said, letting her voice be mock-dire, "I shall scream." 

She did not expect to hear Findekáno's voice in answer, though perhaps she should have; she looked up as she heard him say, "Who is being wrapped in Tulkas' epithet now?" in the particular tone he got when he was weary and had just encountered something that confused him. 

Given that he would need some answer, Irissë chose to reply, "Your followers are going to decide you are an absolute exemplar of valour and heroism for this, you do realize that." 

Her eldest brother looked at her for a moment, frowning, and then said, "I am missing the beginning of this matter, and I refuse to be drawn into it until that is no longer the case." 

"You look exhausted, Káno," Nerwen said, in a gentler tone of voice, and Findekáno's frown deepened. 

"I am," he said, shortly. "Which aggravates me, given I have done little over the last days but rest." 

It was a remark deeply characteristic of Findekáno and Irissë attempted to suppress her sigh; Naicë, on the other hand, now actually put down her pen, pinning Findekáno with a sharp and steady look. 

"Child," she said, in a voice of great patience, "turmoil of the mind and heart are just as taxing as labour of the body, and sometimes more, while unhelpfully leaving the body restless and unsettled. You would benefit from accepting that now, rather than waiting until it trips you and lands you flat on your face later. For now, I surmise you have emerged because you realized that once again you were extremely hungry, and would need to eat before attempting to sleep if you wished much success at it." 

As Naicë had begun her reproof, Findekáno had begun to look somewhat mulish; by the time she had finished, however, he had subsided into somewhat rueful acceptance. 

"Yes," he admitted. "Should I assume there is something I can eat somewhere here already, or will I have to leave and come back again?" 

*******

While Findekáno ate, Irissë explained her invocation of Tulkas' epithet and her threat to scream should it be adapted to him, and Nerwen worked very hard not to laugh at the expression of resigned dismay that Findekáno was attempting to hide. 

Naicë was not bothering to hide her amusement, but that was to be expected. 

This was not the first time something like this had come to pass, although it clearly outmatched all previous occasions by matter of vast degree. It was one of Findekáno's redeeming qualities that he did not in truth make any _attempt_ to impress anyone or to gain any particular renown for acts of fearlessness; near everything he did was done without any thought to reputation or the regard of others. 

There were those among their kin who would amend that to _near everything he did was done without any thought_ , and leave it at that, but Nerwen knew better. Oft-times it was not deep thought, and it was often insufficient thought. But there was thought - and none of it was about how others would perceive him. 

"And it does not _matter_ if it was not your intention," Irissë concluded, with some asperity. "Naicë is right, it is what will happen." 

"Clearly the burden of being my sister will only become that much heavier," Findekáno retorted. "How fortunate you have such gifts in bearing hardship." 

Nerwen elected to hand Irissë her cup of yullas by way of interrupting their exchange. There had been a little more sting in Findekáno's words than she thought he meant, and while Nerwen doubted that Irissë would take offense, Irissë might mistake that sting for an invitation to a kind of play Nerwen did not think would be wise, just now. 

Findekáno's presence felt heavy in Nerwen's thought, and equally heavy was Naicë's barely-veiled reminder that Findekáno himself bore a certain kind of injury here. It perhaps warranted a certain amount of care in return.

"It is something to be aware of, though," Nerwen said aloud, concealing her desire to laugh at how uncomfortable Findekáno clearly was with the idea. "As we need to begin letting the tale spread." 

Findekáno sighed and drew a hand over his face. "Yes," he said, "I do understand, and I regret that I have not been . . . that I have not given much - _ai_ ," and he cut himself off with that, as Irissë had reached over and flicked his ear sharply; he glared at her. 

Nerwen resisted the impulse to put her hand over her face as, to be entirely fair, Irissë had brought the line of apology to a halt. 

"Do not be absurd, háno," Irissë said sharply. "You have been _busy._ And if anyone had thought you should have been attending to it, you _would_ have been told," she added. 

" . . . that I have to grant," Findekáno admitted. "And . . . I also must grant that even now I do not have much thought to give to it. I can see the need, and even some shape of the thought that should be given but I do not think I could reach it, just now." 

"How fortunate that you are not being expected to," Irissë told him, and he shot her a tolerant look. 

Nerwen poured yullas for him and for herself, and came around to sit. She debated with herself briefly but, in the end, surrendered to the part of her still worrying at the earlier conversation. 

"I do have some concern about naming, though, Káno," she said, and he sighed. 

She had considered leaving it, but as much because she could find no easy solution herself she thought that might be unwise. If it was a problem that would take time to remedy then it would be better to begin now. 

"Truth, Nerwen - I do not know," he admitted, quietly. "I asked, for myself, and truly it does not seem to matter what I - " 

He stopped, took a breath and glanced at Naicë, who was listening again, face sombre. " - Have you . . . spoken, with them, about - ?" and he trailed off, as if at a loss for words, though Naicë seemed to understand. 

"Artanis yes," Naicë replied, calmly, "your sister, not yet," and though she had not at first followed Findekáno's leap of thought, at the unhappy reluctance this wrote across his face Nerwen managed it, and chose to spare him having to explain to his sister, aloud, what Nerwen already knew.

"Morgoth's chief captain is a master of shadows, shifting shapes and appearance," she said, quietly and simply, as Irissë frowned - and then stared, eyes widening, as her own understanding dawned, and Nerwen continued, "and so it is very likely he wore whatever shape he could that he thought would worsen what he did, and summoned phantoms in whatever shape he could not wear, so - " 

" _Ai_ ," Irissë breathed, raising one hand to her mouth. She looked at her brother, whose gaze had now dropped to the ground and whose jaw was tight, and then at Nerwen with the obvious question in her eyes. Nerwen nodded, very slightly. 

"It is . . . another reason," she added, quietly, "that I have considered it best to wait as long as we can to send a message to his brothers." 

Irissë's mouth became a silent _oh_ , eyes widening a little more in horror. Findekáno shook his head and sat back. 

"I do not know," he repeated, with a slight and helpless shrug. "Names . . . he does hate _Nelyafinwë_ , he always has." And Irissë nodded a little. 

"Tyelko and Curvo only ever used it around their father, or when their brother could _not_ hear them," she agreed, quietly. "Or _Nelyo_. And even then, only when they were aggravated with him. Carno used it most times by the end but - " she lifted one palm and dropped it. "Carnistir. And even he used _Maitimo_ if he were . . . . " She made a gesture as if grasping at the words. "If he were _trying_ not to be abrasive." 

"Fëanáro used to use _Russandol_ , but then the twins were born, and he stopped," Findekáno said, "and that was near the same time as . . . " he made a disgusted and dismissive gesture that Nerwen took to encompass Fëanáro's descent into what would eventually become his madness. 

And that was true enough. Even she had made note of the shift, first with Fëanáro and then his satari and then those who admired them, from affectionate epessë to ataressë. She did not by any means disbelieve that her cousin had always hated the latter, or at least had hated it from the day he recognized its true meaning, but he had hidden that well, and it had become the name he was most known by for all who were not his brothers or those equally close. 

"Given _Russandol_ also came from his father, and in affection," Naicë said, delicately, "I would not imagine it would be left any less tainted than any other." 

All three of them stared at her; the look she gave them back was steady, and Nerwen recognized the tinge of regret that always came when Naicë told of things that she wished she did not have to. Usually of this kind of horror though . . . perhaps not so much of it. 

It was strange, a strand of Nerwen's thoughts told her, given what she had already thought of and already known, that this would seem so much . . . more. But it did. 

Irissë said, very quietly, "He did flinch when I used _Maitimo_ ," seeming almost apologetic. 

"I do not doubt it," Naicë said, her voice the echo of her face. "All the more if that was the name that those who loved him most often used, and the one he preferred." 

"And in truth I am sure he would have done so no matter what name I used," Nerwen said, "or how safe or . . . .tainted . . . it was or was not." 

"Most like," Findekáno agreed, worrying at the seam at the cuff of his sleeve with his other hand. "It is not fear there, though, it is . . . shame. And guilt." His jaw tightened again and he added, "Suffice it to say that he agrees I should not have gone." 

" _Háno_ \- " Irissë began in protest, and then seemed to run out of words.

"I have never said that, Káno," Nerwen said, quietly. She noted, "I have made it clear your _plan_ left a great deal to be desired. That is not the same as saying you should not have gone." 

Findekáno pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "I know," he said, quietly. "I - forgive me that, I am weary and the matter is sore." 

"I know," Nerwen told him. "There is nothing to forgive - I remind you to be sure you know, not to chasten." 

Irissë had got up and moved to sit on the arm of her brother's chair, put her arms around his shoulders and rest her head against his. Findekáno rested a hand on her arm and squeezed and then sighed again, waving it all away. 

"I do not want to ask him about it again," he said, "not soon - I asked him whether I should - " and he trailed off. Shook his head again. "It . . . upset him enough that speaking became difficult. I do not wish to ask him again." 

"I will think of something," Irissë said, with the kind of _definite_ if quiet tone that made Nerwen look at her with her head slightly tilted, though Irissë ignored it. So she let it be and sighed instead. 

"And for now, we can largely avoid the issue," she said, "and for others, his essë is likely no _worse_ now than it has ever been." 

Irissë kissed the side of her brother's head and a look of resignation came across his face. "You're going to tell me I should go to sleep, aren't you," he said, turning his head just a little. 

"If she is not, I am," Nerwen said - and Naicë said it at the same time, making Irissë laugh. 

"Aikánaro should be coming soon," Nerwen continued, without bothering to be concerned with that, "and though I love my brother you are _not_ in a fit state to see him for the first time in all this right now, so if you do not go to bed you will have to leave." 

Findekáno grimaced, but she could see that the argument was effective. "Give him my apology," he said, and Nerwen smiled slightly. 

"He does not need it, Káno," she told him. "Now go and sleep." 

_v._

Ingoldo was sitting on the main dock, leaning back on his hands with his feet in the water, when Irirainwë found him. 

His little brother wore a long linen coat in a silver-grey with the fur-lined boots he had made himself for the winter, for even after they reached the land it seemed that Irirainwë felt the cold of the Ice following, and as always, the air off the water was far cooler than that further up the shore. He came alone and carried nothing with him, and for a moment Ingoldo had a wistfulness for Tol Eressëa and Alqualondë, where there might still be times when they were only themselves, and such a moment might not lead to talk of duty. 

But there was little point in the wistfulness, so he put it aside. 

Ingoldo was there because he could not sleep, but he was still aware that it was late, and gave his brother a long look as Irirainwë made his way out to sit cross-legged beside him. "I know why I am awake," he asked, "why are _you_ awake?" 

"Because there are things that need planning," Irirainwë replied, blandly, "and it is easiest if I simply do so rather than complicating matters by deputizing to others, or demanding help. And do not apologize," he added, as Ingoldo sighed and sat up. "I am also well aware that I would rather do this than trade places with you or with our sister, so there is nothing to apologize for. Had you heard she terrified a sentry earlier?" 

"Our brother told me, yes," Ingoldo replied, with a slight smile. Nornasímo had been amused, and only roughly sympathetic: it was not, he had pointed out to Ingoldo, as if they did not _tell_ those under their command about their sister, and warn them not to interfere with what she did, tell them that the fine details of guard and sentry-work that applied to nearly every other worthy in the encampment did not apply to her. 

Yes, it might be somewhat _startling_ to watch a Finwiel dive out into dark water, and true that Nerwen had not been wont to do that kind of thing much _lately_ , but - Nornasímo had insisted - it was not as if they were not generally warned. 

"Has _she_ slept recently?" Irirainwë asked, and Ingoldo half-shrugged. 

"Valinárë says she has," he said, and Irirainwë made a small gesture of acknowledgement; their sister's eldest arandurë was best able to attend to those things, short of they themselves having the sort of argument that none of them relished having with their sister. 

They had done, once, in the days just after the host had made landfall in Endórë - when Irissë, Itarillë _and_ Valinárë had all come to speak to them in worry, that while even the nestandë rested Nerwen seemed determined to ignore her own need for the same. 

It had not been out of wilfulness, or even self-neglect, though Ingoldo did not know if his sister ever told the others _why_ she had been so determined not to let her mind go quiet. What had waited for her. Or if the others knew as such that Nornasímo had ended the trouble by waking Naicë to ask for some remedy that would _make_ Nerwen sleep, and without dreams. 

Ingoldo had payed a little more mind to what his little sister did and did not do since then, though not enough that she would notice. 

"I considered either lurking in your tent to wait for you or sending someone to find you," Irirainwë went on, "but then I felt it likely I would find you here. Small birds may have mentioned raised voices," he added, as Ingoldo sighed, "from the meeting in Nolofinwë's tent." 

Ingoldo wondered whether it had been his brothers own aranduri or whether others were inclined to tell Irirainwë such things. Not enough to ask, mind, but in an idle way. When people were concerned it was often Irirainwë they consulted, or warned, or sought out: in many people's minds he occupied the exact balanced point of enough authority to reassure them, without being so high in authority that they were reluctant to draw his attention, and uncomfortable when it fell on them. 

It was something of a boon and it suited both of them perfectly. It simply meant there were indeed many metaphorical birds that might tell him what many in the camp would know. 

"Not his, thankfully," Ingoldo admitted, lowering his voice a little. "But yes, some of the others have been . . . . slow to understand the changes of circumstance." He chose the words with an excess of judicious caution, which would itself tell his brother all he needed to know without allowing the frustration to rise again, now that it was mostly settled. 

And indeed, Irirainwë gave him a knowing look. 

"Olossimo?" he asked, and Ingoldo grimaced, but inclined his head slightly. 

Olossimo was not the only one of those closest to their uncle who was displeased to discover Nolofinwë was now shifting his policy towards the Fëanárioni, aligning it more closely with what Findekáno had been arguing now for some time, and which Ingoldo himself had been more subtly attempting to promote. But Olossimo was the most obdurate, and as arandur and satar, Nolofinwë had inherited him from Haru rather than drawing him in himself; Olossimo was older than most others in the host, and as well as blaming Fëanáro for all the things that were truly Fëanáro's to bear, he also blamed Fëanáro for Haru's death. 

That was unjust, and more than a little beyond unjust. Ingoldo hardly thought highly of his father's half-brother by now, to put it as mildly as possible. But he also entertained no and less than no doubt that if Fëanáro could have done so, he would have traded his life for Finwë's without thought. The only way he was responsible for Haru's death was in creating the Silmarili in the first place and it was not just to expect anyone to foresee where that had led. 

If Haru's death lay at anyone's door but their Enemy's, it was his _own_. Haru had gone to Formenos willingly to begin with, _Haru_ had decided that Fëanáro's exile meant his and for little enough cause, Haru had _himself_ chosen to remain in Formenos on that day. 

Most of all, it was Haru who had chosen to set himself against a Vala to protect his first son's treasures. Nothing had compelled him to do any of it. He could have remained in Tirion; he could have gone with Fëanáro on that day; and most of all he could have fled with everyone else, everyone who _had_ survived, rather than wasting his life in a futile, even prideful attempt against a Power he never had any hope of matching. 

But Olossimo had known Finwë since before Oromë came to Cuiviénen, and he was not the first person Ingoldo had watched become unjust in grief. Only the most inconvenient of them, just at this moment. 

"Dare I ask how that ended?" Irirainwë said, and there was a cautious mix of apprehension in the curiosity behind the question. Ingoldo felt his mouth quirk. 

"Onórolwa eventually asked him, very politely, if - given that Findekáno went to Angamando to begin with, and returned alive, and all that it implied - Olossimo wished to debate this with our cousin himself, and if so when he thought that they should meet on the matter, so that Nolofinwë could arrange it for a time it would be convenient for his son to leave Nelyafinwë's side." 

Irirainwë covered his face briefly with one hand. "That . . . seems a risky gambit," he said, voice carefully neutral letting the hand fall, and then absently reaching to pull his single braid over his shoulder. 

"I am not sure," Ingoldo said, leaning back on his hands again. "My instinct is to agree - but the more I have thought on it since, the more I suspect . . . ." 

He opened one hand and let it fall. "At worst, Olossimo would agree, and then what? He tasks our cousin on what he has done, and gets what he likely deserves for doing so. And given what Nerwen has said I am not certain Findekáno could not set him on his heels without even raising a hand, on this matter. Nor that it would not do our cousin some kindness to have something so simple to confront and overcome. I am sure your aranduri and others have told you the same thing mine have told me, about the mood in the camp." 

After a moment's consideration, Irirainwë nodded slowly. "There is more worry that the rumours are not true, than that they are," he agreed. "That many, at least, _want_ to believe that Findekáno could have done this - and that it might lead . . . " and he waved away the rest with a brief gesture. 

"And so," Ingoldo concurred. "At worst, Findekáno is angered - but has a target for that anger and a likely-public confrontation confirms for all that what many of them wish is so. It is perhaps not the _best_ plan, but it is. . . . " he paused, but Irirainwë was nodding. 

"It is better than onórolwa muzzling Olossimo himself," he agreed, quietly but bluntly. 

"Regardless, it did not come to that," Ingoldo said. "Thankfully Olossimo blustered somewhat more, mostly in complaint, but when cornered he had to admit he had no desire to accept onórolwa's offer, nor truly any _answer_ to what else was to be done, given what we are presented with."

Ingoldo was not actually surprised at that. Most of those with influence and office in the encampment had been nearby, when Thorondor landed; while they might deny it to themselves, and some like Olossimo might dislike admitting they could be intimidated by one so much younger than they, Ingoldo did not think _many_ who had been near enough to so much as see him that night would relish setting themselves head against Findekáno over this. 

"And that is the true core of it," Irirainwë agreed. He exhaled, and looked up at the stars for a moment. "I will not say it is not a relief to know we are turning thus," he said. "You are remembering the delegation from the Avari will be returning soon." 

It was not a question, and Ingoldo did remember that - and that even the last time they had come, it had been clear they wished to know why the encampments were divided, and what that meant, and the barrier of parted language had become more difficult to use as a screen to avoid explaining. 

It had been strongly implied that on their return they would have a messenger from further south, and one who remembered Telerin as it had been spoken on the Melehtamentië. If so - 

Well. There would be very little remaining that could be so obscured without making the _choice_ to mislead or deceive. Far better if they could give a truthful answer that yet did not lay what divisions they suffered and their reasons bare. 

All things considered. 

That would be far, far easier now. 

"Are we prepared for them?" he asked, and Irirainwë shrugged. 

"Of course," he said, "though I would be a liar if I said I am not hoping our sister can be pulled away from healer's duties enough to help. I intend to ask her tomorrow; I would have asked her this night, but then I heard of her leap into the lake, and determined she did not need an extra burden on her thoughts _just_ now." 

"I am grateful," Ingoldo said, honestly, "that you are attending to this." 

"And you are welcome," his little brother replied, equably. "The attention is full of many parts, it is true, but when considered against the alternative of sitting without anything to occupy my thoughts and worrying about others' tempers . . . " and here his smile was crooked. 

"Well it seems Turukáno is on speaking terms with his brother again," Ingoldo offered, "and Itarillë is no longer in our sister's tent, so in that much at least there are good omens." 

Irirainwë looked out over the lake, and said, "Let us hope they hold true. Even they are the _less_ volatile of those who will need managing, before our people's reuniting is complete." 

"I am not forgetting it," Ingoldo agreed. "And I have yet to fully convince Nolofinwë that our best hope of managing them will be Irissë, since it means sending her out to meet with them." He nodded out towards the darkness. 

"I wish you luck," his brother said, solemnly, and Ignoldo gave a soft laugh. 

"I will win, in the end," he said. "He knows he has no true argument, for it is not as if she is any less able to face dangers than either of his other children. I have never wholly understood why his feelings balk so, with his daughter, when they do not with his sons." 

The tanwë-lights were more than enough that Ingoldo could see as well as feel the sudden bright amusement from Irirainwë as his brother said, "Can you imagine Atya being so, with nesalwa?" 

"You mean Atya, who Haruni scolded at length in public for letting Nerwen climb up the side of the ship on her own when she was still only so high," and Ingoldo gestured a little more than two feet off the ground, "instead of pulling her up in the net? And who was so unconcerned that he did so _again_ when she swam out to meet them the next time, in spite of the scolding? No," Ingoldo concluded, as Irainwë laughed softly. "Even Haruni gave up a very little time later." 

She had, at that. Had also admitted to Amya that she no more knew how to calm Amya's then-youngest than Amya did, which had been much for Fanyawen to admit. And that bridge being crossed over had likely made Aikanáro's earliest years easier. 

For all that he had been even wilder, their youngest brother had also been far more aware of disapproval from those around him, and far more vulnerable to it. It did not help him to contain each impulse, but it had made him easily ashamed and angry with himself, and it would have been easy for that to become a very great problem indeed had their mother's mother been less practiced in resignation from the child who came before. 

"Perhaps it is easier to be confused in such things when your daughter did not have a habit of biting hard every time she grew angry, before she learned to speak," Irirainwë mused. "I do not think Irissë did that." 

Ingoldo breathed a very brief laugh. Aikanáro's response to a scolding had often been to run away and hide; Nerwen's as a small child had always been to become angry and indignant back. Often, in the time before she fully mastered speech enough to say what she wished, she would indeed become so frustrated that she would bite. 

When she had grown older, Ingoldo had asked her if she knew why, and Nerwen had laughed. 

_Because it seemed obvious to me that everyone grown was making me angry on purpose,_ she said. _You were all so much taller, and stronger, and wiser, and could make so many things happen! So I thought you should have been able to order the world to make sense, and work how I wished it to work - and if you made no sense and were angry with me instead, or did not understand something I understood, then it could only be spiteful. And so deserved to be bitten._

When Ingoldo had been truly unable to keep from laughing aloud, his sister had with wholly false solemnity told him, _It was very trying, to be small._

"You may be right," Ingoldo said, aloud. "But Irissë is still the best choice to send with embassy - whenever Nelyafinwë is well enough. And I do not know when that will be." 

Irirainwë wrapped his coat around himself a little. "I will admit I have been avoiding any need to ask for more details," he said, ruefully. "Anything weighing so heavily on Nerwen as this is . . . I would rather not know any more than I must." 

"I cannot blame you," Ingoldo replied, entirely sincere. "I have not seen him and I am . . . uneasy about the first time that I will. I know a little more than you do and it is . . . heavy knowledge." 

They sat in quiet for a moment before Irirainwë asked, "Have you noticed how much effort our brothers are putting into pretending they are not giddy with admiration?" his voice a little wry. 

"I have noticed Aikanáro is more delighted than he is anxious and unhappy," Ingoldo replied, "and that is enough. For that matter, so are you," he pointed out, gently, giving his brother a sideways look. Irirainwë made a slight face, caught, but then shrugged.

"Elentári witness, háno, I am just grateful something has broken Nolofinwë from his stasis," he said, quietly and more frankly than Ingoldo was expecting. "He knew as well as you and I that we could build little enough from here while our people are still split like this, but he would not or could not admit it, and so we sat here and did nothing." 

Irirainwë shook his head, looking up again at the stars. "We need to build homes, mark fields, gather herds, build strong places - and _soon_. And now it looks as though we may. I will happily take a few more sleepless nights of planning," he concluded, mouth quirking, "for that. I will even put up with Morifinwë for that - although," and here his eyes lit with a sudden mischief that Ingoldo had missed seeing in his eldest little brother, these past many months, "that might be asking more than Nornasímo is capable of." 

"I am already thinking on how to keep them away from one another," Ingoldo said dryly. "Yes. But you are right. With any luck now we may have houses built, before the next time it snows." 

"May it be so," Irirainwë said, the prayer sincere. "May it be so." 


End file.
